Repellent
by Neena Varscona
Summary: It was Rodney's nature to be repellent; it was the Pegasus Galaxy's nature to take it to the next level. It takes volcanoes, Wraith, genetic experiments and the Genii to show Rodney that not everyone thinks of him the same way. Warning; minor preslash.
1. Chapter 1

Spoilers: "Irresistible", and general spoilers up to the middle of Season 3.

* * *

Three years. Three years to the day since Dr. Elizabeth Weir had shown up on his doorstep to make him an offer he'd have to be brain-dead to refuse. Three years of risking his life on an almost-daily basis, fending off life-sucking aliens in a distant galaxy. Three years of playing with technology that challenged even _his_ gargantuan intellect.

Three fabulous years.

Dr. Rodney McKay had made a point of sharing this news with pretty much anyone who would stay put long enough to hear him out, and even with some who wouldn't. But by the end of the day, the staggering lack of enthusiasm on the part of his colleagues and so-called friends had effectively taken the wind out of his sails, and now he sat alone at a table in the mess hall, surrounded by people who kept their distance out of habit. The crew of Atlantis had learned early on in the expedition that it was unwise to approach McKay during his free-time—interruptions were likely to get you posted to waste management or something equally unappealing.

As Rodney poked at his Salisbury steak with the prongs of his fork, feeling uncharacteristically disinterested in his food, he pondered his unusual social situation. He was well aware of the fact that he was prickly, and he usually preferred eating alone anyway, but it still stung that people avoided him. In a way, things hadn't changed much for him since his high school days. Even though he was now the head of the best team of scientists ever gathered in one place, he still sometimes felt like a gangly pre-teen sitting at the end table in the lunch room with the greasy-haired girl and the foreign exchange student with the eye-watering body odour. The jocks and the cheerleaders hadn't even considered him worthy of bullying—that's how low-down on the food chain he'd been.

A burst of laughter erupted from a table behind him, and Rodney thought '…and cue the jocks'. He recognised Sheppard's barking-hyena laugh and the graceful tones of Teyla's voice, although he couldn't make out her words. His paranoia automatically provided the dialogue, and in a matter of seconds he was convinced they were laughing at his expense and his shoulders instinctively hunched up. He supposed it was possible that they hadn't seen him when they came in—he did have his back to them, after all—but he couldn't shake the feeling that they were deliberately excluding him.

Rodney's back stiffened when he heard the deep rumbling sound of Ronon's voice, followed by more laughter. Was it his imagination, or had the reject from "Quest for Fire" grunted out his name?

"That's right, laugh it up, Fuzzball," Rodney muttered under his breath, his mouth turned down in a decidedly mirthless grin. "Let's see what happens the next time your plumbing goes on the fritz."

A few more laughs from his teammates' table and he'd had enough. Scooping up his dinner tray in one hand and his cooling mug of coffee in the other, Rodney noisily pushed his chair back and got to his feet. No way they could pretend they hadn't seen him now, he thought, and waited for one of them to acknowledge his presence. When it didn't happen, Rodney turned to face them and found Sheppard, Teyla and Ronon gathered close together over some kind of book. It was obviously very amusing, but with Ronon blocking his view, Rodney couldn't make out what it was.

As curious as he was to find out what had the rest of his team in stitches, the very real possibility that they were laughing at him was incentive enough to turn back around and walk away. As he dumped his tray of mostly-uneaten food into the receptacle, the nurses sitting at the nearest table gave him an odd look. Rodney glowered back at them and their eyes quickly sought refuge elsewhere. Honestly, you'd think they'd never seen him leave food on his plate before…and even as the thought crossed his mind, he had to admit to himself that it didn't happen often.

He wasn't hungry. So what? It didn't mean there was anything wrong with him. And it certainly didn't mean he was sulking. Because he wasn't.

* * *

Teyla was laughing—a much-needed release after their latest run-in with the Replicators—when she caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of her eye. Colonel Sheppard had won a book of drawings by a man named Gary Larson in a poker game the previous evening and had insisted on educating both her and Ronon in the humorous art of cartooning. She had been so engrossed in the book that she hadn't noticed Dr. McKay until he was walking away, head down and a deeper than usual frown on his face. It didn't take a self-proclaimed genius to figure out that he'd been sitting nearby, witnessing their impromptu get-together, and Teyla had the good grace to feel ashamed for not noticing his presence sooner.

"John, should we not have invited Rodney to join us?" she asked politely.

Colonel Sheppard blithely waved away her concern. "He's read these already. Besides, he's probably holed up in his lab going over the reports from all the new systems the Ancients started up while they were here."

Teyla laid her hand on his arm to prevent him from flipping to the next page and succeeded in gaining his attention. He looked up at her, confused.

"Rodney was here just now and saw us together," she said, using her eyes to get across what she was really trying to say.

John's brow furrowed as the implications of what she'd said sank in. "Damn. I guess I should go talk to him."

He made it sound like a chore, but Teyla knew better than that. Although she didn't pretend to understand the complexity of the friendship the colonel and McKay shared, she knew that he valued it highly. Despite their differences and the incessant bickering, they remained close—closer than brothers—and John would never put that in jeopardy.

"Perhaps that would be best," she agreed. She watched as Colonel Sheppard shoved himself up out of his chair and sauntered towards the doorway. Across from her, Ronon leaned back in his seat and raised an eyebrow at her, a knowing smile on his face. He was most likely picturing the angry tirade that Sheppard was about to suffer at the hands of Dr. McKay. Teyla couldn't help but smile as well.

* * *

John caught up with Rodney just as he was settling down at his lab station. The elaborate eye-roll and sneer he received upon entering the lab told him that he wouldn't be getting a 'Get out of Jail Free' card this time. He squared his shoulders and took the plunge.

"I know what you're thinking, but I swear we didn't know you were there, Rodney," he began, wincing under the razor-sharp blue of Rodney's glare. "I was just showing them the Far Side book I won last night."

"What's wrong, Colonel? Need help with the big words?" McKay's chin jutted out petulantly.

The acerbic tone Rodney had taken with him rubbed John the wrong way—didn't the man get that he was trying to _apologise_? He crossed his arms and matched the scientist's glare with one of equal magnitude.

"I _was_ going to ask if you wanted to join us," John replied through gritted teeth.

"Oh, like I have nothing better to do than explain cow jokes to the Pegasus Galaxy's version of Tarzan and Jane."

"That's nice, McKay," he said. "And you wonder why people don't want to sit with you?"

A flash of hurt flickered across Rodney's face, so brief that John wouldn't have noticed it if he hadn't known the other man so well. Damn him! The man could spew venom and then make you feel guilty for it! Well, not this time, John thought, as he geared up for round two.

Round two was a no-go, however, as they were interrupted by Elizabeth Weir's voice coming over his headset.

"Colonel Sheppard?"

John tapped his earpiece, more to let Rodney know he was receiving a message than for any practical purpose. "Yeah, Elizabeth, I'm here."

"I need to see you and your team in the control room," she said mysteriously.

"Is there a problem?" he asked, holding a hand up to stall Rodney's worried outburst.

"No problem," she answered. "Just something I thought you might like to see."

"We'll be right there," he replied, and turned to McKay. "C'mon, we gotta go." Knowing it would drive Rodney crazy not knowing what was going on, John high-tailed it through the lab doors and down the corridor, ignoring the sputtering invectives being thrown at him by the irate scientist at his heels.

Along the way he called up Teyla and Ronon on their headsets and the four of them met up on the walkway leading to the control room. Dr. Weir was waiting for them, an amused expression on her face. John knew her amusement was mostly due to the near-rabid anxiety of one Dr. Rodney McKay.

"You _did_ tell your team that this wasn't an urgent matter?" she asked John pointedly.

"Guh!" Rodney's exasperation was hardly unexpected and was instantly disregarded by everyone in the control room.

"It may have slipped my mind," John admitted with a sly grin.

Elizabeth's eyes sparkled with shared mischievousness, but she hid it from Rodney and the others as only a true leader could. "The MALP we sent to MSS 696 sent back some images that I really think you should see."

As she stepped over to the view-screen, the technician on duty played back the video feed from the MALP. The initial static cleared to show a lush, tropical rainforest, and as the camera turned a slow 360˚, it looked like there was nothing more to see than trees, flowers and a whole lot of flying insects.

"Very pretty," Rodney snarked. "You dragged us all the way down here to show us a jungle?"

"Wait for it…" Elizabeth said with a cryptic smile.

Rodney responded with an impatient grunt, but John noticed that he kept his eyes glued to the screen, just like everyone else in the room.

Just as the MALP's camera had almost finished its full turn, a tall, thin structure came into view. It looked derelict, mostly covered in a thick growth of moss, but the parts of the stone obelisk that were visible showed markings that were unlike anything John had seen before.

"Well I'll be damned," Rodney muttered and stepped closer to the screen to get a better look. "Is that what I think it is?"

Elizabeth's smile broadened and she crossed her arms in satisfaction. "I don't know," she answered. "That's what I want you and your team to go and find out."

"I don't get it," Ronon said, towering over their shoulders to see the screen. "What is it I'm supposed to be looking at?"

"That's a very good question," John said, and he turned to address Dr. Weir. "Care to explain to the rest of the class?"

Elizabeth was about to answer him, but Rodney beat her to it. "It's Asgard! There was one just like it on Cimmeria."

John had no idea what he was talking about, and it must have shown on his face, because Rodney gave him a disgusted look and shook his head.

"Seriously, don't you people ever read the SGC mission reports?" Rodney ranted. "Cimmeria was the first planet we encountered the Asgard. That's where SG-1 met the hologram version of Thor. As in, 'Thor's Hammer'. Any of this ringing a bell?"

John ignored the dig and asked what he figured everyone else wanted to know. "So it's Asgard. What's the big deal?"

Rodney threw his hands up in the air. "I can't believe this. I'm surrounded by imbeciles!"

Elizabeth wisely stepped in at that point and answered John's question, putting an end to Rodney's mini-tirade. "The Asgard were one of the four ancient races that formed an alliance thousands of years ago, along with the Nox, the Furlings, and the Ancients. We had always assumed that the four races had come together in the Milky Way Galaxy, but if this stone pillar is Asgard…"

"Then maybe the Ancients and the Asgard go back even farther," John finished. He didn't fully grasp how this information might be of use to them, but he could certainly see the historical significance of it. "No offence, but isn't this more of an archaeological thing? Maybe we should send one of the anthro teams to check it out."

"Elizabeth, please enlighten the ranking military officer of Atlantis on what a find like this means," said Rodney, his voice dripping in sarcasm.

Elizabeth gave McKay a warning glance, but did as he'd asked anyways. "We need to know what the Asgard were doing here. We have never before encountered Asgard technology in the Pegasus Galaxy, and the Asgard have never mentioned anything about having been here, which leads me to believe that their presence here was either marginal…"

"Or they were up to something that they'd rather we didn't know about," John finished. Great, John thought bitterly; just what they needed—another ally with secrets to hide. "So…when do we go?"


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

Rodney knew the 'gate addresses of every planet he'd set foot on since coming to the Pegasus Galaxy. Even the boring ones—and much to his dismay, this planet was shaping up to be one of the boring ones. And there were bugs. Way too many bugs. That bit. A lot. Or, at least, they were biting _him_ a lot—no one else seemed to be having a problem with them. 

The MALP readings of the obelisk near the stargate had looked promising, and he'd set off through the 'gate with high hopes of finding some cool Asgard technology, but upon closer inspection, he'd discovered that the stone structure had been gutted. Perhaps, tens of thousands of years ago, the obelisk had been a transporter like the one on Cimmeria, but now it was just a tall hunk of rock. It wasn't even a pretty rock, and the writing was too worn away in most places to give any clue as to its purpose.

The only reason they hadn't turned around and gone home was the discovery of a well-worn trail leading away from the 'gate through the dense jungle. Teyla had convinced Sheppard that they should not pass up an opportunity to meet potential new trading partners. So now they were trudging through the hot, humid, bug-infested rainforest in search of friendly natives. As a prickly trail of sweat formed down his back, Rodney wondered why almost all the villages they visited were built so far away from the stargate. Did no one else consider convenience an important part of interstellar trade? It's not as if building your village an hour's walk from the 'gate was going to prevent you from being culled by the Wraith, anyways.

Rodney's less-than-charitable train of thought was disrupted by Sheppard's sudden exclamation of awe.

"Man! Would you look at that!"

Rodney obediently looked in the direction the colonel was pointing, and he grudgingly had to admit that it was impressive. More than impressive, really.

Through a clearing in the thick foliage they were able to see a landscape so stunningly beautiful that even Ronon had to give it a grunt of approval. A towering volcanic mountain rose up majestically before them, its slopes lush and green and dotted with brightly coloured tropical flora. But what really made their jaws drop were the numerous cascading waterfalls which thundered down into a misty, aqua-blue gem of a watering hole deep in the gorge below.

Rodney's eyes watered at the sight—it was how he'd always imagined Paradise must look like.

"It's…beautiful," Teyla said, the wonder on her face demonstrating what an understatement that was.

"The settlement's over there," Ronon said gruffly, as if he wasn't as awe-struck as the rest of them. He pointed to a spot on the far side of the gorge.

"Where?" asked Rodney, squinting in the direction Ronon had indicated. All he could see were cliffs overgrown with plant life, several waterfalls of varying sizes, and…oh. That was _not_ good! "Oh God," Rodney gasped and swallowed hard—he'd hated suspension bridges ever since he was eleven and he'd had a panic attack while crossing one on his family vacation in B.C.. Jeannie had tormented him for years over that one. Still did, actually.

Sheppard ignored Rodney's gaping, fearful expression and continued chatting like normal. "Hey, do you think they might be interested in setting up some kind of time-share deal? This place would make a terrific vacation spot. Maybe we can make that a priority in the negotiations."

Sheppard had that look on his face—the kind he got when he did things like toss Rodney off of a balcony—and he headed off down the path doing double time to reach the bridge. Rodney didn't even have time to warn him about the obvious safety hazards inherent in crossing one of those death traps.

Teyla and Ronon set off after Sheppard, matching his pace, and left Rodney to grouse helplessly and plod along behind them. "No—don't wait up, I'll be fine!" he bellowed at their retreating backs.

By the time he reached the gorge, Sheppard was halfway across the flimsy rope bridge, light-footing it across the single, thick rope that served as the only foothold, his hands skimming along the two guide-ropes on either side as if they were there only for show. Teyla was about five paces behind him and Ronon was another five paces behind her. None of them seemed to be concerned about the very real possibility that they could plummet to their deaths at any second.

"Hey! Shouldn't we be going across one at a time?" he called out to them. "You know…put less strain on the ropes? Do you have any idea how old this thing is? It could be thousands of years old for all you know. It could snap any second!"

"Come on, McKay!" Sheppard shouted back, his voice barely audible over the roar of the multiple waterfalls. "Or do you want Ronon to carry you across?" he added, and even from that distance Rodney could hear the teasing challenge in his voice.

Rodney scowled at him before turning his full attention to the bridge and the certain death that awaited him the moment he set foot on it. He waited until the others had made it safely to the other side and were standing there impatiently, goading him on.

"Right. No sweat. I'll just…" he mumbled to himself as he tentatively settled one foot on the thick base rope. He put some weight on it and found that it was surprisingly sturdy. "Hm. Okay, I can do this."

The first few steps were good. One foot in front of the other, hands gripping the guide ropes firmly but not too tightly. He was actually starting to feel pretty confident…until the bridge started swaying.

"Whatever you do, don't look down," Ronon shouted helpfully from the other side, an evil smile on his face.

So, naturally, Rodney looked down. He couldn't see the bottom through all the rising mist, but he could hear and feel the thunderous conglomeration of falling water coming from below, and it sounded deep—very, very deep. He swallowed past the lump of dread in his throat and closed his eyes to fight off the wave of vertigo, but that only made it worse. When he opened his eyes again he found that he was frozen to the spot, utterly incapable of voluntary movement. And even worse, he could feel his chest tightening and it was getting harder to breathe, and he knew that an all-out panic attack was imminent.

"I can't do this," he shouted over the angry din of the waterfalls. "You go ahead—I'll meet you back here when you're done."

"Get your ass over here, now, McKay!" Sheppard shouted back at him.

Rodney tried shaking his head no, but his muscles flat-out refused to budge. "I can't move!"

"Well you can't just sta…" Sheppard started, but he was cut off by Teyla's sudden shout.

"Wraith! I sense the Wraith—they are very near!" she yelled.

"What?!" Rodney cried, or rather, shrieked. "You've _got_ to be kidding me!" He strained his ears, but he couldn't hear the whine of any Wraith darts. That meant nothing, though, what with the constant barrage of noise being kicked up by the falls.

Suddenly, crossing the bridge didn't sound like such a bad option. And thankfully, real panic had set in, overriding the relatively mild panic he'd felt only moments before, and his muscles unclenched enough to allow him to move. Looking only at his feet, Rodney crossed the chasm like an expert tightrope walker, encouraged by the shouts of his teammates on the far side. His heart was pounding so hard that he saw dark splotches encroach the periphery of his vision with every heartbeat. It seemed to take an eternity, but he made it, with Ronon and Sheppard grabbing him and hauling him onto solid ground the moment he was within reach.

He stood crouched over, his hands braced on his thighs as he worked to draw air into his burning lungs. "The Wraith! Where are the Wraith?" he panted.

"My apologies, Rodney," said Teyla, "it appears I was mistaken."

Rodney bolted upright so fast it made his head spin. "What!" he squeaked indignantly. "You made it up? Are you insane? I could have been killed!" He could feel his face growing hot, matching the anger he felt at being manipulated like that. It didn't matter how much of a pain in the ass his vertigo might be—she'd almost given him a heart attack!

"I've gotta admit, I'm with Rodney on this one," said Sheppard with a tone of voice he almost never used with Teyla. "That was uncalled for…even if it did get him to cross the bridge."

Teyla shook her head, looking both contrite and confused. "I am sorry, Rodney. It was not my intention to deceive you—I truly did feel a Wraith presence nearby."

All three men became instantly alert, their eyes scanning the foliage for any signs of movement.

"Do you still feel them?" asked Sheppard.

"No," she answered with certainty. "I sensed it only briefly and then it was gone. It is very possible that I imagined it."

Sheppard grunted. "Maybe. But from here on out we do things by the book. I'll take point; Ronon, you've got our six."

Rodney fell into place between Sheppard and Teyla, his heart rate having barely recovered from the near-critical levels his trip across the bridge had caused. He kept his eyes wide open, darting glances from one side of the path to the other, half-expecting a Wraith to pop out at him like some cheesy monster in a carnival haunted house.

The path followed a large stream, and the bug situation grew ten times worse. Rodney was continuously swatting the flying menaces away, but despite his diligence, they still managed to bite. He could feel several welts rising up on the back of his neck and his ankles were itching where the clever bastards had discovered his socks were thin enough to sting through. Even the threat of Wraith attack couldn't stop him from complaining about it. He had allergy issues to consider. And why was _he_ the only one the damn bugs were attracted to?

"Shut up, Rodney," Sheppard hissed.

"You'd be complaining too, if they were out for your blood," Rodney argued.

"I mean it—shut up!" Sheppard hissed again and nodded his head slightly in the direction they were heading. They stopped walking, and John adjusted the P-90 in his grip.

Rodney followed the direction of Sheppard's nod and saw that they weren't alone on the path. A small knot of darkly-tanned men were approaching from the opposite direction. Each of them was as tall as Ronon, with long, braided hair and ears bristling with piercings. Every one of them looked strong and fierce enough to take Ronon down in a fair fight. And if that wasn't enough to give them pause, they were also well armed with giant, vicious-looking knives. For a split second, Rodney had a Star Trek moment and wondered if they'd just met real, live Klingons, complete with Bat'leths.

Ronon drew up alongside Sheppard, his hand poised over one of his many concealed knives. Rodney did the wise thing and slipped back behind the rest of his team, who were far more capable of dealing with enormous, weapon-wielding aliens than he was.

"You are trespassers on our land," the least-towering of the Goliath clones said by way of greeting. "Tell me, why have you come here?"

Teyla took a suicidal step forward and gave the man a slight bow of her head to show her respect. "I am Teyla Emmagan, and this is Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard, Ronon Dex, and Dr. Rodney McKay. We are travellers, seeking alliances for trade and to aid in our ongoing battle with the Wraith."

The leader of the group eyed her suspiciously, sizing her up, but whatever he saw must have made a positive impression, because no one had been killed yet. "How did you learn of this place?" he asked, still showing caution, albeit with less obvious distrust.

Sheppard was the one who answered. "We came here to study the stone pillar near your stargate. We didn't realise there was anyone living here until we came across the trail leading through the forest."

The answer seemed to startle the warrior, and there was a tense moment when he raised his arm to signal his men and Ronon tightened his grip on the longest of his hidden knives. To the Atlantis team's great relief, the signal was one to stand down, and the alien warriors all sheathed their weapons.

"You are interested in the machinations of our god Byleist?" the warrior asked.

That was Rodney's cue and he immediately butted his way to the front of his team. "There's more Asgard technology here?" When the friendly giant just looked at him blankly, he added, "the stone with the writing…Byleist's stone…there's more like it?"

"You understand the writings?" the other man asked, looking slightly awed.

Rodney beamed, delighted at the attention. "Actually, I'm probably this galaxy's leading expert on the subject."

"Then you are most welcome," the man said, and he came up to Rodney and draped a heavy arm across his shoulders. "I am Tav, lead guard of the Pawnim."

Rodney tried to pull away, but the sweaty warrior would have none of it and held his shoulders even more tightly, making Rodney wince. Next to him, Sheppard was looking amused and Rodney wanted nothing more than to wipe the smirk off his team leader's face.

"Come with me—I will take you to Kalell."

Rodney met Sheppard's eyes with shared amusement.

"You're taking us to see Superman?" John asked, as if he'd tried, but couldn't resist saying it.

Tav answered him with the solemnity of one who was oblivious to Earth pop-culture references. "Kalell is our home. Our…'Superman' is Ing Tal, lead council of the Pawnim people."

Sheppard gave his team a small shrug. "Okay then—lead on."

As they were flanked on either end by the Pawnim warriors, Rodney took the chance to mock the colonel. "Superman? You are _such_ a child."

"Oh, like you weren't thinking the same thing," John answered and bumped shoulders with him before taking the lead.

Rodney rolled his eyes, but he felt warmth uncoiling inside him at John's casually-friendly contact. It was something he hadn't even realised he'd been missing.


	3. Chapter 3

Kalell turned out to be a pretty super little town. Technologically speaking, the Pawnim were still pre-industrial and not much to write home about, and yet their society was thriving. The lush vegetation and abundant wildlife provided more than enough food to sustain the town's forty thousand some-odd people. There were none of the undercurrents of desperation and stark fear they usually came across on alien planets where cullings were a constant threat. John had a gut feeling that these folks hadn't been visited by the Wraith in a very long time, and his gut was also pretty sure the Asgard had something to do with it.

Shortly after meeting with Ing Tal, who seemed delighted at the prospect of trading food and local medicines in exchange for Rodney's insights into the 'mechanisms' of their god, they were treated to a kind of barbeque banquet in the council courtyard.

John watched with great amusement as Rodney suffered through the informal meal and the smothering attentiveness of the Pawnim. He could tell that the scientist was dying to get his hands on whatever Asgard technology these people had tucked away, but he was also tempted by the savoury dishes that kept appearing on the table before him. The food won out in the end, but it was a near thing.

McKay practically inhaled the roast pig-thing they'd served, which was tender and seasoned with a spice that made John's mouth water. And the dish that looked and tasted like scalloped potatoes was devoured by his friend before the people at the end of the table had even been served. The only thing Rodney hesitated to eat was the dessert, which was a heavy cake glazed with some kind of fruit.

John knew what he was worried about, and he dutifully took a bite of his own dessert. "Don't eat it," he said around a mouthful of the sinfully sweet dessert. "It tastes like oranges."

Rodney's eyes went wide and he recoiled from the plate as if the dessert might launch itself at his face and claw its way down his throat to cause anaphylactic shock.

When the meal was followed by the pouring of a heady red wine, it became clear that they were expected to stay the night. Tav confirmed it, saying that, as honoured guests, they were welcome—and expected—to partake of their hospitality.

Gathering his team together, John filled them in on the situation. "Ronon, I'd like you and Teyla to head back to the 'gate and let Dr. Weir know what's going on. I'll stay here with McKay."

John saw the brief, satisfied smile that crossed Rodney's face and wondered about it, but then the other man opened his mouth and he had his answer.

"Ing Tal said he'd let me look at the Asgard relics after dinner." Rodney's eyes were sparkling, his mouth turned up in that quirky smile of his.

John looked over Rodney's shoulder to where the leathery-faced elder was watching the scientist with all the fondness of a proud father. Whether he'd intended it or not, Rodney had these folks wrapped around his little finger. They doted on him; serving him before everyone else at dinner, hanging on his every word, gathering around him wherever he went…it was spooky.

"Fine, you can play with your toys," said John in an intentionally patronising way. "But you stay close to me. I mean it—no wandering away to look at shiny things that catch your eye."

Rodney gave him a 'don't be stupid' look. "Oh yes, I have every intention of sneaking away at the first opportunity so I can get picked off by one of the blade-happy mountain men."

"Glad you see it my way," John replied, deliberately ignoring the sarcasm. Not that ignoring it would make it go away. Not with Rodney.

Ronon and Teyla slipped out of the courtyard as the wine-tasting portion of the evening was beginning to wind down. John was about to turn to Rodney and suggest that they should wait until morning to check out the relics, but Rodney looked at him with those excited blue eyes and his childlike enthusiasm rubbed off on him.

"So…you about ready to go?" John asked, clapping his hands together, and McKay's face lit up with a Christmas morning grin.

"Ready when you are," Rodney answered, bouncing up on his toes in anticipation. "Ren and Stimpy here are going to take us." Rodney pointed a thumb at the two towering guards behind him. They'd been introduced as Reem and Stofy, but John could see the passing resemblance to their cartoon counterparts, and he had to smother a smile at Rodney's inside joke. It wouldn't do to let his friend find out he thought he was funny.

John was expecting another long walk through bug-infested jungle, so he was pleasantly surprised to discover that the relics were located in a building in the centre of town, only a few minutes' walk from the council courtyard.

"What? We're here?" asked Rodney in disbelief when Ren and Stimpy stopped in front of the boxy, nondescript building. It could have been a school or a library, plain and utilitarian in structure, and offering no indication of what might lie beyond the building's simple, wooden doors.

Stimpy pulled the door open and ushered them inside. It turned out to be a kind of library, after all. The warmly-lit interior smelled of polished wood and musty old books, and the walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with ancient-looking texts, interspersed with the occasional spot-lit glass case. John did his usual scan of the place, but it was innocent enough. Nothing there but books, relics…and a stunning brunette who made the words 'naughty librarian' pop involuntarily into John's head.

Apparently Rodney spotted her first, because he was already making a bee-line towards her.

"Rodney—what'd I tell you about the shiny things?" asked John, following after him. McKay heard him, but was making a show of pretending he hadn't.

The young woman smiled toothily at Rodney, and she gave him the Pawnim equivalent of a bow, which was mostly done with the neck and shoulders. "I am Lera. And you must be Dr. McKay?" she asked, her dark eyes and deeply tanned skin giving her an exotic, Mediterranean appearance that John could totally get on board with.

"Yes, I'm Dr. McKay…Rodney…" McKay answered, awkwardly extending his hand, which she accepted with wide-eyed reverence.

John bit back a groan—it was like Rodney was all the Beatles rolled into one and Kalell was the Ed Sullivan Show, complete with euphoric, fainting fans. It was almost sickening, and Rodney was soaking it up like a dry sponge in the bathtub. He'd be hell to live with once this trip was over. John sighed. At least nobody was shooting at them.

"I hear that you are a brilliant scientist—that you have unlocked the secret machinations of Byleist?" said Lera.

John rolled his eyes at the way Rodney's chest puffed up at the compliment, his ego so full it was practically bursting at the seams.

"I've been known to unlock a few secrets every now and then," Rodney agreed with false modesty. "Are you here to show me these…machinations?"

John could swear the woman blushed like a schoolgirl, and he couldn't watch anymore—there was something about watching someone flirt with Rodney that set his teeth on edge. He couldn't say why, for sure, but he guessed it had something to do with his naturally overprotective nature. McKay was a magnet for the wrong kind of attention.

He half-listened to the love-fest as he trailed along behind them. Ren and Stimpy were camped out at the entrance and looked bored out of their skulls, so John figured they weren't any kind of threat. The only thing he was even slightly concerned about was that Rodney might say something he shouldn't say or touch something he shouldn't touch. Bad things tended to happen when he did that.

Overall, there was nothing much for John to do, and he was daydreaming—he admitted it—while Lera and Rodney 'ooh'ed and 'ahh'ed over one of the many pieces of Asgard technology in the room. It looked to John like all the other pieces of Asgard equipment he'd seen—clear and orb-encrusted and bizarre. But to McKay and the naughty librarian it was the most exciting thing since the discovery of chocolate.

"Colonel, are you listening to me? Jooohhhnn…" It was Rodney's annoying, sing-song abuse of his name that brought John back to the here and now.

"Sorry—you lost me three do-dads ago," John admitted.

"Well pay attention; this is important stuff," said Rodney, sounding personally offended.

John sighed and crossed his arms, looking bored, which only served to make Rodney glower at him. "Fine. What've you got?"

"Only the reason the Asgard were here thousands of years ago and why the Wraith haven't been here since."

John perked up. He hadn't really expected Rodney to get results like that so soon. "Really?"

"Of course, 'really'," McKay said indignantly. "What did you think I was doing all this time?"

John bit his tongue as the words 'flirting shamelessly' sprang to mind. "Just tell me what you've found, Rodney."

"Well…from what I can make out, there used to be an Asgard science lab here. The exact nature of what they were studying is unclear, but it had something to do with longevity and rapid cell regeneration. If I had to guess, I'd say that the Asgard came here to study the Wraith. They probably thought they might find a solution to their genetic entropy problem. That explains why there haven't been any Wraith cullings on this planet within living memory."

John frowned. "Okay…did I just skip ahead a few pages? 'Cause that made no sense."

Rodney sighed like he'd been asked to explain advanced astrophysics to a third-grader. "There are no Wraith here because the Asgard set up that transporter at the 'gate to trap them and send them somewhere else—probably to an underground holding cell like the one on Cimmeria."

"I thought you said that the transporter thing hadn't worked in ages."

"_Probably_ hadn't worked in ages," Rodney qualified. "It's been stripped clean on the inside, but there's no way of knowing how long ago that happened."

"So that means the Wraith could return now, and there'd be nothing to stop them from making happy meals out of the whole town," John concluded. He saw Rodney's mouth opening and closing as he tried to come up with an argument, but after a moment, he surrendered to John's logic with a worried little 'Mmm'.

John thought back to Teyla sensing the Wraith back at the rope bridge and wondered if maybe she hadn't imagined it after all. From the look on Rodney's face, he was thinking along the same lines.

"Look, Lera," said John, "I don't want to alarm you, but there's a very real possibility that Kalell could come under attack from the Wraith."

Lera chuckled and smiled at him like he'd said something pricelessly cute. "Don't be silly," she said. "The god Byleist watches over us always and keeps us safe. He has done so since before recorded time."

"I hate to tell you this, but Byleist is no longer on the job," John tried again. "Your 'god' can no longer watch over you—he's been gone a long time now."

Lera shook her head and looked at him pityingly. "Byleist is with us always, watching us—watching you. It was he that warned us of your arrival."

John shared a nervous glance with Rodney—this was unexpected news. John didn't trust the unexpected—it usually wound up biting them in the ass.

"We, uh…we really should be going," said John, getting a vigorous nod of agreement from McKay. "Our leader doesn't like us staying out so late." The excuse was so lame it made even John cringe, but he'd rather come off as an idiot than end up shish-kebabed by Ren and Stimpy at the whim of their 'god'.

McKay was one step ahead of him—literally—in making tracks to get out of there. They attempted to look casual as they approached the Pawnim guards at the entrance, and they'd almost made it past them to the doors when they were suddenly seized from both sides.

John's arms were wrenched behind his back so fast he felt his right shoulder dislocate and he had to stifle a shout. He kicked out a few times and made contact, but Ren was six and a half feet of solid muscle and he quickly found himself flattened on the floor next to Rodney, a heavy knee in his back keeping him pinned down to the cold marble surface.

"What the hell!" John shouted, more angry than afraid. He was mostly angry at himself for not seeing it was a trap until it was too late.

It was Lera who spoke next, but she was addressing Rodney. "Byleist told us that you might resist your fate, Dr. McKay," she said, still sounding like an infatuated teenager. "You should not fear it—it is the destiny of all our greatest minds to make the ultimate sacrifice."

Rodney whimpered, his wide eyes darting around, looking for some way to escape. When he came up blank, he turned his anxious gaze on John, most likely assuming that he had some way out of this.

John groaned. It figured—Rodney was good at two things—saving their collective asses on a regular basis, and getting his own ass soundly kicked almost as frequently. He just hoped that Ronon and Teyla managed to return in time to prevent this so-called 'ultimate sacrifice', because there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it himself at the moment.


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

Rodney watched with a growing sense of doom as Ren and Stimpy were joined by Tav and a handful of steroid-enhanced Pawnim warriors. They plucked Sheppard off the ground like he weighed no more than a toddler, and had him in shackles before the colonel could even get in a good punch. Not that he actually could have—the way his right arm was hanging, Rodney guessed it was either broken or dislocated, and the sheen of pain-induced sweat on Sheppard's face told him that it was bad.

Sheppard kept looking over at him, his eyes radiating guilt—as if it was somehow John's fault that they'd fallen into a trap. Rodney knew that if anyone was to blame, it was himself. He should have known all the attention and praise was too good to be true. His eyes, no doubt, reflected John's guilt right back at him.

Ren and two of the new guards dragged Sheppard twisting and struggling out the door and Rodney could hear him alternately cursing them and calling out to him, telling him to be brave. Like he had any choice!

"Where are you taking him?" Rodney demanded with as much bravado as he could drum up, still pressed flat as he was to the marble floor of the library.

"We cannot allow him to interfere in the preparations," Tav answered serenely, and ordered the rest of his men to lift Rodney to his feet. They didn't bother cuffing him like they had Sheppard, but they did remove his pack and his gun. "Don't worry, we will allow him to witness the sacrifice."

"Oh, I'm so relieved," Rodney bit back venomously in an attempt to disguise his panic.

Tav smiled benignly back at him, taking his words at face value. "Byleist will want you prepared for the mountain's fire. We must hurry—he demands a high-moon sacrifice."

Rodney's stomach plummeted. "Mountain's fire? You mean 'volcano'?" he squeaked, his throat suddenly tight and dry. Tav didn't feel it necessary to answer him, and at his signal, Rodney was manhandled out of the library.

A cheer rose up from the crowd gathered outside the building. It looked like half the town had turned out to watch Rodney's capture and subsequent assassination. Rodney felt his legs go weak—this was really happening—they were really going to burn him to death, and even if he could break free of the guards, there was no way he could escape half the townsfolk who were out for his blood.

Rodney craned his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of John in the crowd. He was nowhere in sight, which probably meant they'd taken him into a building nearby. He was probably being shoved into a dingy jail cell at that very moment, and Rodney could only hope that the guards were going to take him to the same place. He needed Sheppard—he didn't think he could get through this without him.

As he continued to scan the crowd looking for John, or maybe Ronon and Teyla, on the off-chance they'd returned early from contacting Atlantis, Rodney began to wonder why the guards hadn't taken him anywhere yet. Why were they just standing there? A few seconds later Rodney had his answer, although it wasn't one that he liked.

To his complete mortification, the guards started slicing his clothes off with their knives and distributing the shredded material amongst the rowdy masses. The deadly blades cut precariously close to his skin and Rodney stood stock-still, scarcely daring to breathe as the sharp metal glinted and flashed all around him. Within minutes he was left standing naked in front of a village full of approving spectators, and as he watched the last shred of his clothing disappear along with his dignity, Rodney fought the overwhelming urge to completely flip out and run screaming through the crowd. If his sense of survival hadn't been so strong, he just might have done it.

Rodney covered his private parts as best he could with his hands and tried not to think about how one of his worst nightmares had come true. Instead, he focused his attention on what the guards were doing. They had held back the items that couldn't be shredded until the end, and now they were handing them out whole to onlookers whom they deemed worthy of the honour. McKay took careful note of who received his gun, GDO and boots, refusing to accept that he wouldn't be needing them again. The implication of having his belongings turned into relics was not lost on him. The thing about relics was that they were really only worth something if the person they came from was dead.

Tav came up beside him and grabbed his arm in a bruising grip. "Bind him," he ordered, and Rodney couldn't help it—he started kicking and punching anyone within reach, twisting and squirming for all he was worth. Sadly, it was a wasted effort. The overgrown warriors brought his struggles to an end after a pathetically short struggle, trapping him motionless in their grasp. Rodney watched helplessly as the one he'd called Stimpy appeared before him carrying a length of thick, rough rope.

"No, no, no, no, no, no…" Rodney muttered as his hands were forced together and tightly bound in front of him. It was all too surreal to truly be happening. The cheering, swarming masses of people; the bite of pebbles under his bare feet as he was led through the crowd; the hands—God! The hands!—that stole across his skin, invading places on his body that didn't bear thinking about; the unrelenting clamour of the people and the blur of torches as he stumbled across the courtyard. It had the same, slow-motion, graphically detailed feel of being in a car wreck; like he was there at the centre of it all, and yet somehow he remained detached from the experience. Like it was happening to someone else—some other poor sucker who was about to die. And it seemed to go on forever.

He was aware, in his detached way, that he was being dragged down a wide street which opened onto a square packed full of excited townsfolk. At the centre of the square was a huge, ornately carved fountain, depicting the volcano and the gorge of waterfalls they'd had to cross to get to the town. The replica was almost as stunning as the real thing—carved in a jade-like stone with multiple fountains cascading down to a shallow pool at the base, mist rising up from it in gentle, billowing clouds.

Rodney yelped as he was forced down to his knees before the fountain, his skin abrading where it smacked hard against the paving stones. The sudden, sharp pain was like getting a bucket of icy water dumped over his head, bringing him out of his trance so fast it made his stomach lurch.

Ing Tal, dressed lavishly in brightly beaded garments, emerged from the crowd and stood next to the large fountain facing the people. Raising his arms majestically, Ing Tal silenced his audience and he turned to address the fountain. "Byleist, we have done your bidding and brought before you the travelling scholar. Is it your wish that we should proceed with the sacrifice?"

Rodney held his breath, hoping that the elder had realised he'd made a mistake and was trying to save face in front of his people by claiming the fountain had given him a sign from their god. Surely, if the Pawnim were gullible enough to believe their god was still protecting them, they would believe whatever Ing Tal said without question and set Rodney free. The last thing Rodney expected was for Byleist to actually take shape within the mists of the fountain to answer the elder in person, but that's exactly what happened.

Byleist was as tall as most of the Pawnim warriors and his long, dark hair was braided in the same fashion worn by all the men. It was obviously a holographic projection, but whether it was a simple recording, responding to a pre-programmed set of variables, or if there was someone, somewhere, controlling it, was unknown. Rodney had read that Thor had appeared to the Cimmerians in the image of a Viking warrior so that the people would trust him, but he'd also set up recorded messages to handle situations in his absence. That meant there was no way of knowing whether the person speaking to them from the fountain was live or Memorex.

"Proceed with the sacrifice as instructed, and bring the other travellers to bear witness. Once I have received the offering, your people's safety will be guaranteed until the next harvest moon." The hologram's voice was deep and sonorous—a commanding voice—but McKay was so caught up in the science behind the projection that he almost missed what Byleist had said. He blinked vapidly up at the apparition a few times as the words began to sink in.

"Our god has spoken," Ing Tal declared, once more turning to face his people. "We must move quickly if we are to reach the summit before the moon is high."

There was a flurry of activity around him, and Rodney was unceremoniously yanked back onto his feet. Rodney's brain scrabbled to escape, to detach the way it had earlier, but it was no use—he was grounded by his fear. As they began marching him out of town, he was hyper-aware of everything: the cold sweat that prickled his exposed skin, the chafing of his wrists as Tav pulled him along by the tail end of the rope, the tickling, stinging, biting bugs that he could no longer brush away, every cut and bruise inflicted by the stones beneath his feet. But what was worst of all was not having John, Teyla and Ronon there with him. If they were there, Rodney felt sure they would have somehow managed to get him out of this mess. He would gladly suffer the childish teasing about his public nudity and his unmanly tears if only they would show up and take him home.

* * *

John paced restlessly in the tiny room the Pawnim had locked him in. His arm hurt like a son of a bitch, and he welcomed the pain—it kept him alert. There were no windows in the stone cell, and the door was four inches of heavy metal, with no hinges or bars to provide even the faintest hope of escape. He kept his footsteps silent, his ears straining to hear any noises coming from outside. His only chance was to wait until someone opened the door and charge them, even though such an act would undoubtedly lead to him curled up in a ball of pain on the floor. Still…he owed it to Rodney to at least try.

They'd left him his watch, so he knew that he'd been locked up for just over an hour when he finally heard someone approaching his cell. John braced himself against the wall, preparing to throw himself at whoever opened the door. There was the sound of keys jangling, the heavy clunk of the lock disengaging, followed by the rumbling grind of the metal door sliding open.

John seized his chance, hurtling towards the tall figure that filled the narrow opening. As he'd expected, the whole thing ended with him writhing in pain on the floor. Ren stood above him, shaking his head in amusement at his pointless attempt to escape.

"I was hoping I wouldn't have to carry you up the mountain," said Ren. It was the first time John had heard the man speak, and he was hoping it would be the last. His voice was so ordinary and blasé that it didn't seem natural coming out of the brutish thug. Ren snapped his fingers and two more Pawnim guards made quick work of binding John's hands and feet.

John clenched his teeth against the pain in his shoulder as the guards bound him and slung him over Ren's back in a mockery of a fireman's hold. It was everything he could do to remain conscious as the strain on his dislocated joint shot waves of nauseating pain throughout his entire nervous system. If Ren was planning on carrying him all the way up the mountain this way, he knew he wouldn't last.

As they entered the street, John noted that the crowd was moving, heading along the main road out of town. He searched the torch-lit street for any sign of McKay, but the scientist was nowhere to be seen. He did, however, see something that made his heart sink—coming up the street behind him were four Pawnim warriors, and between them they carried the unconscious bodies of Ronon and Teyla.


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

Lt. Colonel John Sheppard had _not_ passed out. With everything that was at stake, there was no way in hell he would have allowed himself to pass out, so there had to be some other explanation for why he suddenly found himself waking up at the peak of an active volcano with no memory of how he'd got there. Maybe they'd knocked him unconscious like they'd done with Teyla and Ronon.

John quickly took stock of the situation. It wasn't good. Ronon and Teyla were on either side of him, and all three of them were on their knees, shackled by their wrists and ankles to a sturdy iron railing which bordered the lip of the volcano. Teyla appeared to be alright, but Ronon looked like he'd taken quite a beating—probably came to before they'd finished locking him up and gave the guards one hell of a fight. John's shoulder was starting to swell badly, and having his hands cuffed behind his back was causing a constant thrum of pain to radiate from the dislocated joint. But aside from that, and the stifling heat, everything was just peachy.

Now, if he could just find Rodney…

It turned out all he had to do was follow the direction of Ronon's scowling glare to find the scientist. John took one look at Rodney and lost it, grunting and swearing as he strained against the shackles in a desperate attempt to reach his friend. That bastard Ing Tal had McKay naked and bound hand and foot on a platform overhanging the mouth of the volcano not far from where he and the rest of the team were chained. Rodney looked absolutely petrified, standing in front of the chanting elder and shaking so hard that John could clearly see the tremors from where he was.

John heard the sound of feral growling and was vaguely aware that it was coming from his own throat. His rage was so intense that he didn't even feel the pain from his abused shoulder as he wrenched his arms and legs against the metal bindings that held him back.

"Rodney!" he shouted, drowning out the sound of Ing Tal's chanting. "Rodney!"

Rodney looked his way at last, his glassy, red-rimmed eyes wide with terror in a face ghastly white and streaked with grime. John could see angry red welts rising in various spots across his pale skin—bug bites, and lots of them. He saw the dark red crust of dried blood mingling with fresh, bright red blood at his wrists where he'd been fighting against the rope that bound them together.

Their eyes met and locked on each other, and John felt like he'd been sucker-punched—because beneath the fear, John could see trust shining from McKay's eyes. He trusted John to somehow miraculously come up with a plan that would save him at the last second. It wasn't as if it hadn't happened before—they'd been through some pretty horrific things together and had pulled off a few miracles when it came down to crunch time. But this time John could do absolutely nothing to save him, and it was torture having to stand by watching, helpless to do anything about it.

Their gaze was broken when Tav and one of his men approached Rodney on the platform. Rodney panicked and tried to run, but his feet were bound and he ended up face down on the wooden boards. Tav had a long rope and was busy attaching it to the bindings on Rodney's wrists, and it was only then that John noticed that the rope was attached to a yardarm protruding out over the lip of the volcano. Once the rope was secured, Tav and the other guard stepped away from the platform. They began pulling on the other end of the rope, which wound through a series of pulleys, until it became taut. Within seconds there was enough tension to slowly drag Rodney across the platform. Rodney wriggled and bucked, but the knot wouldn't budge, and inch by inch, John watched as his terrified friend was dragged ever closer to the end of the wooden boards.

John didn't want to watch, but he couldn't turn away. Even though there was nothing he could do to stop it, he could at least keep his eyes trained on McKay, to offer whatever comfort he could during his final moments. He had to be strong for Rodney's sake.

Then it occurred to him that there was one thing he hadn't tried yet. He couldn't believe he hadn't thought of it earlier! "Ing Tal!" he bellowed. "If you have to sacrifice someone, it should be me—as the leader of my team, I demand you take me in his place."

His words seemed to bounce off the old man, who continued chanting without missing a beat, and John's eyes went back to Rodney, who was looking at him with a mixture of disbelief and anger. John didn't care what Rodney thought; it was his duty to do everything in his power to protect the people under his command. For Rodney he'd have offered the exchange even if it hadn't been his duty.

Rodney was so focused on John that he yelped in shock when his heels were finally dragged over the edge. He swung out in a wide arc, his panicked movements making him twist and jig erratically in the air. It took four diminishing arcs until his friend was hanging straight down from the yardarm, his arms stretched above him, streaked with fresh blood from his abraded wrists.

McKay broke eye contact with John and looked down, causing him to renew his struggles. John flashed back to the suspension bridge and how scared Rodney had been then—he couldn't even begin to imagine the horror he must be feeling now.

An ominous hush fell over the crowd. John saw Ing Tal's hand rise up and for a second that seemed to last an eternity it hung there above his head, waiting to give the signal. John held his breath and swung his gaze back to Rodney, who'd gone completely still. He looked oddly peaceful. And when the old man's hand came down, Rodney gave John a sad little smile and disappeared into the fiery maw of the volcano.

"No! Rodney!" John yelled at the top of his lungs. He sucked in air, feeling a suffocating desolation that threatened to pull him under. Never in his life had he felt more powerless than at that moment.

* * *

John was numb. The Pawnim warriors—all of them—escorted the remaining members of Atlantis' advance team down the mountain and back to the 'gate. John barely registered any of it, his body automatically doing what it was supposed to do, but with no more conscious thought than a zombie.

Ronon had raised an eyebrow at him when they'd reached the bridge. It was the best spot to make a move against the Pawnim, but with their hands still shackled behind their backs it was just too risky. And John wasn't about to risk any more of his team on this mission. He'd already lost Rodney.

John's chest tightened painfully every time he thought about it, but the blessed numbness always returned quickly. The only thing that kept him going was knowing that this would be his last mission. As soon as they returned to Atlantis he would request a meeting with Elizabeth and he would hand in his resignation. Because the thought of going through the 'gate again with yet another member of his team gone…his chest went tight again and John waited for his mind to go blank—for the numbness to take the pain away.

It was Teyla who dialled the 'gate back to Atlantis, having swayed the Pawnim to return their GDOs to them. John was more than willing to let her take over. He was grateful for her levelheadedness, and it would be his recommendation to Elizabeth that she be given command of their team when he was gone.

One at a time, Tav released them from their shackles at knifepoint and shoved them through the even horizon. John was the last to stumble through, stepping out into a world that should have changed, somehow, with the death of his friend, yet hadn't. It jarred his nerves. All was quiet and peaceful, the control room lightly manned in the small hours of the morning. Elizabeth would be on her way, as would Carson, undoubtedly—their early return would have raised the usual alarms.

John felt Teyla's hand on his shoulder and he shrugged it off. He didn't want to see the sympathy in her face or hear her comforting words right now. Ronon seemed to get it, keeping his distance and remaining silent. What was there to say? Nothing they could say would bring Rodney back, and frankly, he wanted to feel miserable. Hell—he wanted to feel anything, apart from the cold ache that had settled in the pit of his stomach.

Weir and Carson arrived as expected and immediately broke into a run to join them at the 'gate. Carson took one look at John's arm and ordered a gurney to be brought down for him.

"John! What happened? Where's Rodney?" Elizabeth asked. Her eyes were wide with apprehension, the dark circles around them attesting to the ongoing stress of command and too many sleepless nights.

John could do this. He _had_ to do this. The only problem was that it felt as though someone had clamped a vice around his throat and squeezed it shut. He could feel Teyla and Ronon eyeing him, wondering if they would need to step in. That was all it took for his military training to kick in and John found the strength he needed to say what had to be said.

"He's gone, Elizabeth," he said, his voice leaden and gravelly. "They killed him."

Dr. Weir stared at him in shock, and he heard Carson's sharp intake of air at the news. He knew they had a lot of questions, but they were both wise enough to understand that he was in no shape to answer them at the moment.

Elizabeth gave him a tight-lipped nod. "I'd like all of you to go with Dr.Beckett to the infirmary and get checked over. We'll debrief once he's cleared you."

John nodded curtly and started walking away, but Elizabeth stopped him, lightly touching his arm. "John…I'm so sorry."

John could only nod again, as his throat had constricted to the point where talking was no longer possible. He felt the threat of hot, prickling tears behind his eyes and he had to get out of there. John pulled away from Weir and Carson and brusquely pushed past the medical personnel who'd arrived with the gurney.

The last thing he heard as he passed into the corridor was Teyla apologising for him. "McKay's death has been a shock to all of us, but I fear it has had a much greater effect on John," she said, her voice strained, but filled with compassion. John's jaw clenched and he made himself keep moving, trying to erase Teyla's words from his mind. He was _military_, damn it! He'd seen more death in his lifetime than most men his age, and Rodney's was no different.

Except it was, and he didn't know why.

* * *

Rodney was dead. He knew this because he'd been there when it happened. He'd been there when Ing Tal had given the signal and he'd plummeted into the roiling molten lava below. He'd even had one of those cheesy 'life flashing before your eyes' moments. So he knew he was dead.

Now Rodney had never been much of a believer in the afterlife, but if he was dead (which he'd already ascertained must be the case), then there was no other explanation for his continued ability to think and feel…and smell.

He was the first to admit that he didn't know much about Heaven, but he was pretty sure it wasn't supposed to smell this bad. And wasn't Heaven supposed to be all glowy white lights and reunions with long-lost loved ones? Why was it so dark? Unless…

Rodney tried opening his eyes. Well. That explained it, he thought, as the darkness was abruptly replaced by a brightness that stabbed painfully into his sensitive retinas. He groaned and slammed his eyelids shut again.

Hmm. Sight, smell, pain, ability to make and hear noise—it all seemed rather corporeal to Rodney. He attempted to move. It hurt, but he could do it. If being dead didn't even have the one perk of being pain-free, then he was definitely going to have to have a word with whoever was in charge.

God! He hurt everywhere! Like he was wrapped head to toe in a blanket of pain.

Curiosity finally got the better of him and Rodney cautiously cracked his eyes open again. The light still hurt, but it was bearable, and he needed to see where he was, to know what was happening to him.

He was looking up at a ceiling of dark, glassy rock. Interesting, but not all that helpful. Rodney lifted his head to look down at himself and hissed. He was totally naked and his skin was red and blistering in places, like he'd fallen asleep in the sun and had baked for hours.

Rodney felt a zing of excitement despite the pain. He was alive! The burns were proof of it. Somehow—he had no idea how—he'd been rescued from the volcano! And although his skin was in rough shape, he didn't think the burns were all that severe. But the important thing—alive! He was alive!

A grin spread across the tight skin of his face and he breathed a deep sigh of relief. Once again his senses were assaulted by a sickly-sweet smell, and he grimaced. Where the hell was he, anyway, he wondered.

"Ah, you're awake," said an inhuman voice from behind him.

No. It couldn't be. Rodney twisted around to see who was behind him and the sight sent a chill throughout his burnt-but-alive body. It was a Wraith.


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

Rodney gaped at his captor. "Oh, come on!" he cried. "I get saved from the fiery pit of an active volcano only to get eaten by a Wraith? Nobody's luck is that bad!"

The Wraith came around to the side of the table Rodney was laid out on, looking somewhat amused. "I must confess it is refreshing to receive a sacrifice that doesn't cower and shriek before me."

Rodney wasn't about to admit that he was shrieking like a little girl on the inside. And then the Wraith's words sank in. "Wait, wait, wait—you? You're Byleist?"

"In the flesh, so to speak," the Wraith said with a sharp-toothed smile that made the blood drain from Rodney's face. "I see that it is true, then, that you understand this…'Asgard' technology."

Rodney faltered, sputtering a little as he realised he'd as much as professed his understanding of Asgard hologram technology with his last outburst. "I didn't say that. I just…put two and two together and reached the only plausible conclusion."

The Wraith circled him, trailing one of his claw-like nails along the tabletop as he went. "I have been monitoring you since your arrival in Kalell. I know that you are this galaxy's leading expert in Asgard technology—your own words, I believe."

"About that…" Rodney hedged. "If you'll recall, I'm pretty sure I said I was '_probably_' this galaxy's leading expert, and that's true, as far as I know. But this is a big galaxy, and there's bound to be someone out there who knows more about it than I do. I mean, it stands to reason, doesn't it? I'm just saying that I may not know as much as you think I know, even though it's true that I know a lot…Okay, I'll shut up now," McKay cringed, expecting a backhand for his babbling.

There was a tense pause, and then the Wraith leaned right into his personal space, his mouth inches from Rodney's ear, and huffing foul breath on him. "If you value your life, you'd better hope you know enough about this technology to be of use to me."

Rodney swallowed hard and shrank away from the Wraith's rancid breath. "What do you need me for? What possible use could you have for Asgard technology, anyways?" He knew he was pushing it, but he figured the Wraith was going to kill him anyway, so what the hell?

To his astonishment, the Wraith didn't hand-suck him dry on the spot. Instead, he studied Rodney like a seasoned poker player sizing up an opponent. "In the Pawnim repository you told Lera and Colonel Sheppard that you believed the Asgard were here experimenting on the Wraith as part of a plan to increase their species' longevity through rapid cell regeneration."

"Now that wasn't a direct quote," said Rodney defensively, unable to stop himself. "You're making inferences based on incomplete data."

"Nevertheless, you were correct," the Wraith replied and took a step back to wave an arm at the room around them. "This is the very laboratory you postulated was here. The Asgard, as you call them, used that device to manipulate their genetic code. I have tested it on many of the previous Pawnim sacrifices, but the machine does not work. You will fix it."

Rodney's jaw dropped. "You can't be serious!" he balked, eyeing the monstrous device that took up nearly an entire wall. "That thing may never have worked in the first place, and even if it did, it's been out of commission for tens of thousands of years. Do you even know what it's supposed to do?"

"The Pawnim's understanding of the Asgard language is…somewhat limited," the Wraith admitted, "but I believe this machine was designed to blend Wraith genetic material with that of humans to create a hybrid capable of rapid healing and regeneration."

Rodney was about to ask why the Wraith would be interested in such a thing, when the answer suddenly popped into his head, along with all of the appalling implications. If the Wraith succeeded in creating a human with regenerative capabilities, they would essentially be creating a self-replenishing food source. Just feed, wait for your victim to recuperate, and then feed again in a never-ending cycle. Rodney felt his stomach churn at the thought.

He would rather die than be the one responsible for the endless suffering of countless people throughout the galaxy, and words to that effect had spilled out of his mouth before his brain had time to switch into self-preservation mode.

The Wraith leaned in again, and this time he placed his clammy grey hand on Rodney's chest. Rodney tried to back away, but he was trapped between the table and the Wraith.

"I have fed recently and can go for quite a while before I need to feed again, but make no mistake—I _will_ feed off you. Fix the machine and you will be able to regenerate and become the first human to survive a feeding. Refuse and I will make a meal of you now. The choice is yours."

A voice inside Rodney's head—one that sounded suspiciously like Sheppard's, he noted—was telling him to stall as long as possible, to hold onto the possibility of rescue or escape. He forced himself to look the Wraith in the eye. "I'll do what I can," he said, not blinking, despite his urge to curl up into a ball and weep. "But I should warn you—I'm an astrophysicist—genetics isn't exactly my area of expertise."

"You will do what you can and you will test the machine on yourself. You will know if you were successful if you are still alive after I feed on you. It is that simple." Rodney swallowed past the lump of fear in his throat as the Wraith spun on his heels and walked away, his long coat tails twirling behind him like a horror movie villain.

For the first time since regaining consciousness Rodney had a chance to really look around. The Asgard device was bulky and oppressive-looking, despite the clear-crystal design and graceful contours. It took up most of one wall and its prominent feature was a reclining seat that was too small to have been intended for humans. And if Rodney couldn't figure out a way to escape, he would probably be squeezing into that chair in the near future.

He pried his attention away from the machine and scanned the rest of the laboratory. There was a horizontal crack in the thick obsidian wall to his left, not big enough for a person to fit through, and judging by the ominous red glow coming from the far side, not a viable escape route, either. So now he knew that the laboratory was carved into the volcano somewhere near the molten core. The Asgard had probably used the thermal energy to power their equipment—that would make sense, he supposed.

One piece of equipment, aimed at the crack that opened onto the core of the volcano, was Wraith in design, and Rodney recognised it all too well. The Wraith had cannibalized a Dart and set up the culling beam to rescue the poor schmucks the Pawnim tossed into the volcano, acting like a net to catch them before they could be burned to death by the molten lava.

Rodney had been culled.

His eyes continued their journey around the laboratory. He wasn't surprised to see an Asgard holographic projector and a bank of monitors displaying several live video feeds of Kalell. It was all coming together now. The Wraith must have been brought to this lab by the Asgard transporter near the 'gate. Somehow he'd managed to escape the lab and gutted the obelisk to ensure the safe passage of his fellow Wraith when the time came. The reason the Wraith hadn't culled the Pawnim in so long was because they intended to use them as guinea pigs in their latest experiment. And if Rodney fixed the damned machine, they'd be the first population to become an all-you-can-eat buffet.

Rodney's eyes tracked to the last part of the laboratory which lay in shadows and was the source of the putrid stench that Rodney now recognised as the smell of the decaying remains of the Wraith's previous victims. Rodney didn't look too hard at the shadowy pile—it was bad enough knowing that he would most likely end up there soon.

When Rodney finally turned back to look at the gene-splicing machine, he nearly jumped out of his skin—the Wraith was right in front of him as if he'd appeared there by magic.

"Do you require incentive to get to work?" The Wraith asked venomously. "Perhaps a few years trimmed off your life will motivate you."

The Wraith's hand struck the centre of Rodney's chest like a cobra going for the kill. A sharp pain sliced through him as his skin was pierced, followed by rippling waves of agony as his life force was slowly drained from him. Rodney's scream reverberated off the glassy rock walls and ended only when the Wraith released him from his grasp.

Rodney slid off the table and onto the floor, drawing himself up into a tight ball. He could feel the effects of the feeding—the dull ache of his muscles, the heaviness of his lungs—and he could see how it had left his hands wrinkled and spotted with age. The Wraith had trimmed more than just a few years off his life, and he knew that this had been his only warning.

"Get to work," the Wraith ordered.

Staggering to stand on wobbly legs, Rodney obeyed, hating himself for his weakness.

* * *

"I'm worried about him, Elizabeth." Carson had pulled Dr. Weir aside in the infirmary and his soft voice was brimming with concern for his latest patient.

Elizabeth flicked an anxious glance at Colonel Sheppard who was lying awake but unmoving on one of the med beds. "Is it serious?" she asked.

Beckett sighed. "Physically he'll be fine—he won't be using that arm any time soon, but it could have been much worse. No—what I'm worried about is his mental state."

Elizabeth nodded grimly. She didn't need Carson to tell her that Colonel Sheppard was poised on the brink of a burnout. It was only a matter of time before life in the Pegasus Galaxy took its toll on all of them, and considering everything Sheppard had been through in the last two years, she wouldn't be at all surprised if Rodney's death pushed him over the edge.

"Should I have Dr. Heightmeyer pay him a visit?" she asked.

Carson's brows knit up in consternation. "Aye, for all the good it will do. I've never met a more stubborn man when it comes to talking about his feelings."

"Kate's good," Elizabeth replied, and then corrected herself. "She's the best. If anyone can get John talking, she can."

"Let's hope you're right," said Carson, pursing his lips as he cast a glance towards Sheppard.

Elizabeth gave him an appraising look. "How about you? How are you holding up?"

The doctor ducked his head as if he was embarrassed to be the centre of her concern. "To be honest, it hasn't quite struck me yet," he answered with a weak smile. "Although, I have a feeling when it does, it won't be pretty."

Elizabeth gave his arm a squeeze and answered with a sad smile of her own. "I know what you mean," she said. "Rodney's absence will leave a big hole in a lot of people's lives."

"Aye, that it will," Carson agreed, and without another word he turned and headed back to tend to his patient.

Elizabeth watched from a distance as Colonel Sheppard twitched away from Dr. Beckett's friendly pat on the hand. She had to agree with Teyla's assessment after they'd returned from the planet—Rodney's death was going to take its toll on all of them, but no one was going to feel his loss more keenly than John. It was hard to believe that the man who was lying in the infirmary looking so lost was the same man who'd charged into battle against the Wraith and the Replicators without blinking. It was as if part of John had died along with McKay on that planet.

It was then that Dr. Weir decided to hold off on calling in Dr. Heightmeyer. John was more than the military commander of Atlantis—he was her friend, and she owed it to him to try to reach him herself before turning him over to official channels to see him through this.


	7. Chapter 7

* * *

John slept. He slept in the infirmary under the influence of 'the good stuff' as Rodney had called it. He slept in his quarters after Beckett had released him. He slept straight through the scheduled debriefing, and he'd have gladly gone on sleeping for the rest of his life if someone hadn't come knocking at his door.

He felt lethargic and heavy-limbed as he rolled out of his too-short bed and clumped his way over to the door to answer it. Elizabeth stood there in the hallway looking teary and apologetic and it made Sheppard want to yell at her or hit something, because—damn it!—what right did _she_ have to cry over Rodney when _he _couldn't? Even though he had more cause?

"John," she said simply, by way of greeting.

"Elizabeth," he replied, keeping a tight grip on his emotions.

"Teyla and Ronon filled me in on what happened on the planet. John, I'm so—"

"_Don't_ say you're sorry," Sheppard bit back with a bitterness that took them both by surprise. He stopped long enough to pull in a deep, cleansing breath through his nose to help him regain his composure. "You have nothing to be sorry for."

Elizabeth frowned up at him, because what he hadn't said, but had clearly implied, was that he _did_ have something to be sorry for. "You couldn't have known it was a trap, John," she said kindly. "Ronon sensed nothing but goodwill from the Pawnim people, and you know how distrustful he is of strangers. Both Ronon and Teyla never saw it coming."

John twitched under the weight of her wide-eyed concern. "I'm sorry, can we not…do this?" he asked, waving a weary hand between them. "I'm just…I'm tired, Elizabeth."

"I know you are, John. We all are. Just promise me you'll talk to someone, whether you feel you need to or not. Humour me."

John couldn't voice his promise, but he couldn't bear to see that deeply-etched empathy on Elizabeth's face any longer so he nodded his agreement. It didn't appear to be enough to satisfy her, though, because she was still standing there, watching him expectantly. "Was there anything else?" he asked bluntly.

Dr. Weir's shoulders sagged a little in defeat. "No, John. Take whatever time you need." She bowed her head slightly in farewell and took a step back into the corridor.

"I wish we were under attack," John suddenly blurted, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he could censor them, forced out of him by the threat of Elizabeth leaving him alone again.

"What?" asked Dr. Weir, not sure she'd heard him correctly.

John shrugged, his eyes downcast. "If we were under attack then I wouldn't have to…to deal with this," John admitted in a cracking murmur. The lump in his throat was back and threatening to choke him into silence. And really, he didn't want to talk, but he _had_ to. Eventually he would have to tell Elizabeth what he was thinking, and it was a question of ripping the band-aid off fast rather than drawing it out and making the whole ordeal more painful than it had to be. "I—I don't know if I can deal with this, Elizabeth. The truth is, I've been thinking about going back to Earth." The last was barely audible, but Elizabeth had heard, and her eyes took on an almost wounded expression.

There was an uncomfortable moment where they simply stood facing each other from opposite sides of his doorway, saying nothing.

Dr. Weir studied her clasped hands for a while before fixing John with a painfully sincere look. "Give it a few days, John. That's all I can ask. If you still feel the same way then, I won't stand in your way."

John heaved in a deep breath and for the first time since he'd returned through the 'gate the tightness in his chest eased a little.

* * *

It took Rodney hours of digging through schematics and running diagnostics to come to the conclusion that there was nothing wrong with the Asgard device. His progress was severely impeded by a litany of discomforts caused by his raw and bleeding feet and wrists, the innumerable bug bites that tormented him, the tight, burned skin that covered most of his body, and the various and sundry effects of being rapidly aged by a Wraith. Oh, and let's not forget the empty, growling stomach—because, really, how long had it been since he'd had food, anyways? Yet despite his numerous grievances, he'd managed to figure out exactly what was wrong with the machine—which was nothing. It was in perfect working order.

Not only did Rodney learn that the Asgard built their equipment to last, he also learned the true nature of what it was designed to do. They'd assumed that the Asgard had set up the lab to study and duplicate the Wraith's regenerative abilities, but it turned out it wasn't the Wraith they were studying—it was the iratus bug. It didn't take Rodney long to deduce that the Asgard's attempts to incorporate iratus bug DNA into their own genetic makeup had resulted in the creation of the Wraith species.

And all this time they'd been blaming the Ancients! It certainly explained why the Asgard failed to mention their previous exploits in the Pegasus Galaxy. In their single-minded pursuit of methods to preserve their race, the Asgard had unwittingly unleashed a scourge that had devastated the populations of thousands of planets. It was bound to be a touchy subject for them.

But now Rodney was left in a bit of a bind. He could pretend to futz around with the machine for a while longer, but the Wraith was watching him with a suspicious eye and it wouldn't take him long to figure out that he was being duped. Besides, Rodney's recent ordeal was starting to catch up with him and his energy was flagging dangerously. Somehow he doubted the Wraith would allow him to take a short break, let alone collapse and sleep for the next three days. And he'd given up on the prospect of escape—he was too weak now for that to be a realistic option.

Rodney rose creakily to his feet from the painful crouch he'd been holding for the last twenty minutes. He felt vaguely ridiculous working in the buff, but not ridiculous enough to risk the repercussions of asking for something to wear. He pulled himself up as straight as he could, trying to appear more dignified than he felt, but his traitorous hands wouldn't stop shaking, and bunching them into fists only made his aged joints ache. His stomach roiled, sending plumes of burning acid back up to his oesophagus. Part of it was due to his hunger and exhaustion, but mostly it was because he was about to do something genuinely selfless and suicidal. He cleared his throat, quickly drawing the Wraith's attention.

"There's nothing I can do to fix this," Rodney proclaimed in defiant honesty.

The Wraith snarled at him and raised his feeding hand threateningly.

Rodney's arms instinctively crossed over his chest in a defensive position. "Whoa there, hang on!" he stammered. "There's nothing I can do to fix it, because there's nothing to be fixed. It isn't broken."

Hand poised to strike, the Wraith narrowed his eyes, regarding him uncertainly. "Explain."

Rodney's heart gave a sickening lurch before settling into a faster-than-usual rhythm. He took a step back, knowing it wouldn't do him any good should the Wraith decide to kill him, but needing the extra space between them, nonetheless. "As you already know, the machine stores genetic information in its buffers to use later in the process of integration. But what you didn't know was that they were using DNA from the iratus bug, which is like some long-distant relative of the Wraith. The reason nothing happened when you tried the machine on your past…subjects…was that the iratus bug DNA samples stored in the machine's buffer have degraded too much over the years to be of any use. So, unless you happen to have a spare iratus bug lying around here somewhere…"

The Wraith seemed to consider Rodney's words carefully but kept his hand raised and ready to feed. "If what you say is true—if this…iratus bug…is genetically related to the Wraith—then can we not use a sample of my genetic code in its place?"

Rodney rolled his eyes. "It's not that simple," he said, feeling oddly like he was lecturing one of his lackeys back on Atlantis. "Look—we'd already be changing one variable by using a human in the place of an Asgard. That alone might be enough to mess with the results. Now, if you switch Wraith DNA for iratus bug DNA on top of that…"

The Wraith sneered at him. "I am willing to take that chance," he snarled. "You forget that I have nothing to lose should the experiment fail. You, however, stand to lose a great deal."

Rodney gasped involuntarily as the Wraith's feeding hand latched onto his chest again. He held his breath, waiting for the pain that would signal the end of his existence, but it never came. Instead, Rodney found himself propelled backwards until his legs collided with the device's reclining seat. He'd gained enough momentum to get knocked off balance and he fell into the tiny chair, grazing both hips against the arm rests along the way.

He was well and truly wedged into the little seat and even if he'd had the strength to un-wedge himself, it would only piss off the Wraith enough to kill him. And then the Wraith would find another victim, but this time armed with the knowledge of how to make the machine work.

No. There was no other option. Rodney was about to find out firsthand what it felt like to be turned into a Wraith. He could only hope there would be enough humanity left in him afterwards to do the right thing and destroy the machine so no one else would have to suffer for his mistakes.

Rodney was peripherally aware that the Wraith was moving around behind him, trying to figure out how to incorporate his DNA into the machine's buffer. From the sounds of it, he'd figured it out and was busy preparing a sample disk to upload into the machine. For the first time ever, Rodney cursed the Asgard for making their equipment so user-friendly. If the Ancients had designed the damn thing, it would have taken a team of scientist several weeks of brainstorming and someone with the ATA gene to make it work.

There was a very odd noise—a buzzing…humming…sort of noise that made no sense. Rodney twisted around in the seat to see where the noise was coming from and was deeply disturbed to discover that the humming noise was actual humming. The Wraith was humming—tunelessly and with that weird metallic buzz that accompanied their speech—but he was definitely humming. And smiling. It made the hairs on the back of Rodney's neck stand on end.

His muscles protested at the awkward angle he was sitting at, but before Rodney turned to face forward again he saw the Wraith slip the sample disk into the machine's open tray, which slid back into place with a soft whir.

Rodney knew it was only a matter of minutes, at most, until his life as he knew it was over. Closing his eyes, Rodney tried to will his panic to subside. He tried his usual trick of mentally revising his doctoral thesis to include what he now knew about subspace and wormholes. However, his mind refused to focus, and he eventually stopped fighting it.

Images and sounds from his past randomly leapt into his head: Carson sitting in the Ancient control chair for the first time; Jeannie when she was twelve, telling him she'd kissed a boy; Sheppard shooting him in the leg after he'd activated the personal shield he'd found; a bus ride through Vancouver in a hail storm; Sheppard shouting at him to abandon the Arcturus Project on Doranda; Teyla's graceful voice and easy smile; Sheppard grinning up at him as he sprawled on the common room couch watching football; his cat Spartacus curling up warm against his back; Sheppard's look of utter desperation watching Rodney get dragged kicking and twisting towards a fiery death… After a while even Rodney with his complete lack of social skills can't help but see the pattern emerging. He had friends! He had no idea how much the people of Atlantis had come to mean to him. And John—what was with _that_?

Rodney's eyes sprang open with sudden realisation. "I am such an idiot!" he said aloud, and he had just enough time to think how ironic it would be if those were his last words before the Wraith activated the machine and he was surrounded by a blinding white light.


	8. Chapter 8

* * *

When Rodney was a kid, he and his sister would go over to their cousin's house in the summer and swim in their outdoor pool. Jeannie had taken to the water like she was half fish, but Rodney was wary—he knew the statistics about drowning and was determined not to become a victim of stupidity. The shallow end was more than adequate for the purposes of keeping cool and having fun, thank-you very much.

His cousin Eric, older but certainly not wiser, had decided one hot summer day that his young cousin Meredith needed to start swimming in the big kid end like everyone else. Unfortunately, Rodney had been sitting peacefully in a deck chair enjoying the warm dregs of a cream soda Happy Pop when Eric had decided this.

Rodney ended up going ass over tea kettle into the deep end, the pop bottle still clutched in his hand. The rest was a panicky blur of flailing limbs and chlorine-stung sinuses. Every time he broke the surface he could hear Eric laughing and Jeannie calling out, "Swim, Mer, swim!" To his never-ending mortification, his Aunt Rosa had come to his rescue, heaving him over the side of the pool just as his vision was starting to go dark from holding his breath for so long.

Rodney sucked in a dizzying volume of air, gasping greedily to fill his burning lungs with much-needed oxygen. With his head spinning, Rodney blinked in confusion—Jeannie, Eric and Aunt Rosa were still fresh in his mind; a faded memory that felt as vivid as if it had just happened. But it was not a hot summer day in Burnaby, and he hadn't just nearly drowned, although his lungs ached as if to prove him wrong.

It took a full minute until his memories clicked into place and he remembered where he was and what had happened to him. The Wraith! And the experiment! The last thing he remembered was sitting in the reclining seat and being surrounded by a blinding white light.

Somehow he'd ended up stretched out on the table again, so one way or the other it appeared the experiment was over. Rodney could hear the Wraith moving in the shadows, apparently unaware that he'd regained consciousness. Rodney wanted to keep it that way for as long as possible. At the very least, he needed some time to come to grips with what the machine might have done to him.

Lying unmoving on the cold slab table, Rodney focused on his body. He was still naked, which wasn't surprising, but his skin no longer felt raw and tight from the burns he'd suffered. The persistent itch of bug bites was gone, too, now that he thought about it. In fact, he felt pretty good. Hungry, but good.

Hmm.

The Wraith was at his side in a heartbeat, and Rodney realised that he'd said that last bit out loud. Well, damn!—so much for the element of surprise.

The Wraith grinned a skeletal, toothy grin and reached out to caress Rodney's cheek with the back of his mottled-green hand. Rodney grimaced and squirmed away from the repellent touch. He didn't like the way the Wraith was looking at him at all—kind of the same way Sylvester looked at Tweetie, seeing the bird all trussed up like a roasted turkey.

"You will no doubt be pleased to learn that the first part of the experiment was a success," the Wraith purred sickeningly in his ear.

Rodney's heart rate skyrocketed. If the machine worked the way it did for the Asgard, then he was a Wraith! It explained why he felt better—Wraith healing abilities. That's why the Wraith was freakishly excited. Rodney held his hand up in front of his face, needing to see the changes for himself.

His skin was healed, and no longer aged—in fact, it looked pink and new…smoother than before, even. The skin probably _was _new, he reasoned, if his DNA now included Wraith regenerative abilities. With a sense of dread, Rodney turned his hand over, fully expecting to see a Wraith feeding aperture there. But his palm looked as it always had…with the exception of a few missing scars and calluses.

So…he didn't look like a Wraith—or at least his arm didn't. As the Wraith watched him with open amusement, Rodney raised his hands to his face and played his fingers over nose, forehead, cheeks and stubbled jaw. He didn't feel anything unusual or particularly Wraith-like, but he wouldn't feel reassured until he saw his reflection, and there weren't a lot of mirrors handy at the moment.

"You were unconscious many hours and I have grown impatient. It is time to begin the second part of the experiment," said the Wraith with an excited grin.

"No!" Rodney shouted. He attempted to dodge the Wraith's hand, but he wasn't fast enough, and for the second time since he'd been captured he felt the piercing pain and ripping torment of being fed upon.

Only, this time the pain quickly abated and was replaced by a feeling Rodney could only describe as euphoric. Bliss—sweet, mind-blowing, near-orgasmic bliss!—rolled through him in great, crashing waves. Without thinking, Rodney clutched the Wraith's hand to his chest, pressing it firmly against his skin to prolong the feeding.

He was both elated and horrified, as he watched the Wraith shriek and wither before his eyes. In the span of a couple of minutes, the Wraith had been reduced to a dried husk, its shrivelled and sunken features rapidly morphing into a mummified mask of death. Rodney recoiled, suddenly feeling sick to his stomach, and released the Wraith's stick-like arm from his grasp, letting the body collapse in a whispering heap to the floor at his feet.

* * *

Radek Zelenka was out for blood. Not once, but twice now, Rodney had shifted the repair of M7G 677's shield onto his shoulders, stranding him on the planet full of children for days. As if the first time hadn't been bad enough, this time the kids had decided to make him an honorary member of their clan—a fate that not only included full-body paint but also required ritual dancing. Rodney was going to pay!

As soon as the wormhole established, Radek punched in his IDC and was storming through the 'gate to Atlantis, intent on tearing a strip off of Rodney's smug, oh-so-superior backside. With the rest of his science team straggling wearily behind him, Radek made a bee-line for Dr. Weir's office, pointedly ignoring the stunned glances he was receiving from the guards and technicians in the control room. He knew his hair was a mess and there was still paint streaked in places on his face, and the promise of endless jokes at his expense because of it only made his anger shoot up another degree.

Dr. Weir had been sitting at her desk with Colonel Sheppard seated across from her, but when they noticed his approach, they quickly stood up and went out to the walkway to meet him. They, too, looked shocked to see him, but it was more like they hadn't expected him to be there, rather than that they were amused at how he looked.

With his finger pointing accusingly at Sheppard, Radek started in on his tirade. "Okay, where is he?" he bellowed, feeling his face heating up with the power of his fury. "I demand that you call Rodney down here this instant so I can kill him before I start to cool down!"

There was a stunned silence throughout the control room that caused a chill to run up and down Radek's spine. Weir and Sheppard had both gone bone-white at his words, and Radek finally noticed how ragged and red-eyed they looked, and how the overall atmosphere of the place was strained and subdued. In a lightning flash moment of clarity it all fell into place and Radek felt the blood drain from his face so fast his vision greyed.

"Oh my God—he is dead. Rodney is dead," Radek muttered, praying for someone to contradict him. There was only a heavier silence in response, and Sheppard looked away, as if witnessing his reaction was too painful for him.

"Radek, we need to talk," said Elizabeth, dropping a comforting hand on Radek's shoulder.

He didn't feel it. In fact, he barely noticed that she was steering him into her office.

Rodney was dead. It was unthinkable.

* * *

Rodney jumped off the table and backed away from the Wraith's corpse in horror. Not because he was upset that the Wraith was dead—better him than Rodney, as far as he was concerned—but because he had been the one to kill him and it had felt so damned good, and that had to be a very bad thing. He remembered all too well what happened to Ford and wondered if he was doomed to a similar fate, wandering the Pegasus Galaxy an outcast, always looking for the next buzz.

But that wasn't right. The people of Atlantis never turned their backs on Ford, despite what the young Marine believed. And they didn't write off Sheppard when he started turning into a bug, either. On the other hand, neither Ford nor Sheppard had been capable of sucking the life out of people. If they were smart, they'd take one look at him and what he'd become and put a bullet through his head.

His mind was ticking over at an alarming rate, calculating probable outcomes to his situation until he arrived at a solution that provided the least amount of negative fallout. In the end, he decided that if there was any chance at all of returning to normal, he had to get back to Carson. 

It was true that they might kill him once they realised what he could do, but he'd rather be killed by his own people than be left to fend for himself alone in a strange galaxy.

One thing he knew for certain was that the machine had to be destroyed. With new Wraith DNA uploaded into the device's buffer it was a galactic nightmare waiting to happen.

Rodney looked around for a tool he could use to break the control panel, but there was nothing heavy or big enough to cause the kind of damage he had in mind. He took a sidelong glance at the reclining chair. It was bolted to the floor, but he thought he might be able to pry off one of the arms if he tried hard enough.

With an inward shrug Rodney decided to give it a go. Gripping one of the chair's arms with both hands, Rodney gave a mighty yank. The arm came off easily in his hands—so easily, in fact, that Rodney went flying backwards, crashing into the wall behind him. Rodney righted himself and stared down at the cold metal piece of furniture in his hands. Must have been loose, he thought, trying to fool himself that it had nothing to do with genetically-induced Wraith strength.

Shoving that thought to the back of his mind, Rodney brought the chair arm down on the device's control panel. The sheer caveman joy of bashing something felt cathartic and he didn't stop until the whole console was reduced to rubble at his feet. Breathing heavily, Rodney stepped back to admire his handiwork, smiling crookedly at the mess he'd made. As smoke wafted from the connections he'd destroyed, Rodney's mind began to settle, the feeling of whirling chaos slowly dissipating, leaving him more clear-headed than he had been since waking up.

"Okay. Job well done—very good. Now…to find a way out of here," he said to himself, rubbing his hands together.

He spent some time studying the crack through which he'd been beamed. At its widest a four year old child might be able to squeeze through it. Of course, they'd be fried to a crisp long before reaching the other side, Rodney reasoned. In fact, the heat in the laboratory should have been unbearable this close to the core. Unless…

Reaching his hand into the crack in the wall, Rodney was almost instantly zapped by a force shield. And that answered that question. If the lab was shielded, there would be no physical escape routes. But the Wraith had obviously been able to come and go at will, so there had to be another way out. The only logical explanation was that the Asgard had a transporter set up in the lab.

Rodney scrambled over to the holographic projector and monitors. If there was a transporter here, it made sense that it would be with that equipment. "Bingo!" he called out, spotting a transporter panel similar to the one that had been installed in the Daedalus.

There was no way of knowing where the transporter might send him, but it wasn't like he had much choice. It was either take his chances with the transporter or slowly starve to death in the laboratory. He was already hungry, and he seriously doubted the Wraith kept stores of food around for his prisoners.

Mind made up, Rodney was about to activate the transporter when it suddenly occurred to him that he was still naked. He had an image of his naked self transporting onto the deck of a Wraith hive ship. If he was about to meet with a horrible end, he felt he should at least do it with some clothes on.

Rodney's train of thought screeched to a halt. He'd been stripped by the Pawnim during the ritual preceding the sacrifice, and chances were very good they did the same thing to all their victims. And even if some of the bodies piled in the dark corner still had clothes, the thought of picking through their remains made the bile rise in his throat. So that only left the Wraith he'd just sucked the life out of.

Disgusting, sure, but somehow it seemed less disagreeable than stealing clothes from the Wraith's less fortunate victims. With a deeply-etched grimace on his face, Rodney knelt down next to the fallen Wraith.

"Sorry," he said out of some absurd sense of decorum as his hands hesitantly released the clasps that held the Wraith's long coat together. Rodney barely managed to suppress his gag reflexes, peeling the heavy leather duster away from the desiccated Wraith's arms. Its skin was so dried that it powdered under Rodney's fingers, and he was convinced that the corpse's empty eye sockets were following his every move. If he survived this, he figured this moment alone would fuel enough nightmares to last him the rest of his life

Once the arms were freed, the coat came away easily enough, and Rodney decided he could suffer the discomfort of going commando under the duster if that meant he wouldn't have to touch the Wraith ever again. The grimace on his face was threatening to become a permanent feature as Rodney snapped the dust out of the coat and slipped it on.

It smelled old and sour and the worn-leather garment hung loosely on his frame—which was odd, considering the Wraith hadn't been much bigger than Rodney—but at least he was covered up at long last. He tried hard not to dwell on the coat's previous owner and viciously stomped on the bitter thought of what he must look like now, with his brand new Wraith DNA and matching accessories.

Rodney spun on his heels and returned to the transporter, his long coat tails twirling behind him like a horror movie villain.


	9. Chapter 9

* * *

Rodney moved the centre orb to the three o'clock position, hoping Asgard transporter technology hadn't changed significantly in the last ten to ninety thousand years. He felt the familiar tingle and was enveloped in a sparkling white flash of light as the transporter activated, and then Rodney found himself in a dark, damp cavern. A continuous, thundering roar battered his ears, which had just popped painfully from the sudden change in altitude.

Once his eyes adjusted, he realized there was a faint light source off to his right, and it was just enough light for him to see that he was standing in front of the gutted innards of the obelisk they'd found at the 'gate. It made sense—the Wraith wouldn't want anyone stumbling across the transporter by accident and dropping in on his hidden lair uninvited, so he'd hidden it. Judging from the sound of crashing water and the overall humidity, Rodney surmised that the Wraith had tucked the transporter away in one of the caves that spotted the cliffs along the waterfalls.

If he was right, and of course he was, he would end up within walking distance of Kalell and the rope bridge if he followed the light source outside. And wasn't it funny how the thought of crossing that rope bridge completely failed to instil the same kind of terror in him that it used to? Nope—all he could think about was getting back to Atlantis, to his own bed and a decent meal. Oh yeah, salisbury steak and potatoes, or maybe french fries…and chocolate pudding…God! He was so hungry!

Rodney quickly checked his surroundings for any supplies the Wraith might have left behind, and, finding nothing of use, headed off towards the light source. The dirt floor of the cavern had been worn flat and smooth, which meant that it was frequently travelled, and that was promising. The passage narrowed quickly, though, and as he walked, the rock walls oozed moisture and stagnant pools of water began to block his path. There were places where Rodney had to wade through the puddles that were too large to jump across, his mind busily conjuring up all the possible illnesses he could get from the microbes and bacteria he was being exposed to.

The last stretch of the path narrowed so much that he had to edge through it sideways. The roar of the waterfalls had grown steadily louder and now the rumbling was a physical presence, vibrating within his chest like a second pulse. As he neared the exit a gust of wind hit him in the face, soaking him in a fine spray of mist. His wet hair plastered itself against his forehead and fell into his eyes. He was brushing it away in annoyance when it suddenly occurred to him that his hair wasn't long enough to get in his eyes the last time he'd checked.

Great—just what he needed—yet another change brought on by the Asgard device. Vaguely he wondered if his hair was now white like the Wraith's, as well as long. And what other surprises lay in wait for him?

He'd been so caught up in his thoughts that he nearly walked off the side of the cliff when the cave abruptly opened up onto a narrow ledge. A deluge of water formed a thick, moving wall less than a foot beyond the ledge and a steady spray of mist doused him, soaking him to the core. The stone ledge was drenched and slick with algae, and Rodney backpedalled away from the edge, blindly reaching behind him to find purchase in the rock wall at his back.

Once his heart finally climbed back down from its hiding place in his throat, Rodney assessed the situation. He was high above the gorge, pinned between a jagged rock face and a battering wall of water on a slippery path that would have made a mountain goat think twice before navigating. He had no idea which direction to go to get back to the village, and if he didn't eat soon he risked blacking out from the effects of hypoglycaemia.

No problem.

The Wraith managed to do it, so there was no reason why he couldn't. He just had to follow the path far enough to get past the waterfall and then he'd be able to see which direction he had to go. Randomly choosing to head to the left, Rodney slowly edged his way along the algae-slick path, his hands scrabbling desperately at the rock face behind him to keep himself upright. He could feel the sharp rock slicing into his fingers and palms, but he didn't dare let go when every precarious step threatened to send him spiralling towards a watery grave.

Several long minutes later Rodney emerged from behind the curtain of water and into bright sunlight. With the constant torrent of water reduced to a wispy veil of mist, Rodney swept his thick, wet bangs out of his eyes so he could see. He could feel wet curls plastered against the back of his neck, sending rivulets of cold water down his back. It was strange, but at least in the sunlight he could tell that his hair, although longer, was not white.

Rodney took a moment, back pressed firmly against the cliff face, to bask in the sun's warmth. His hands throbbed in time with his heartbeat and he knew without looking at them that they were a shredded, bloody mess. His inner hypochondriac nagged him that he needed to clean and wrap them before they got infected. He mentally added it to the ever-growing list of 'things he needed to do to survive this', and turned his attention to item number one on that same list—finding out which direction he had to go to get to Kalell.

A quick survey of his location cheered him up a little. Off to his left there were another two more waterfalls, and then, a little farther on, was the rope bridge! And better still, the ledge he was on looked dry and slightly wider between the waterfalls.

With a renewed sense of purpose, Rodney pushed on. With the exception of the waterfalls, it was fairly easy going. Just one foot in front of the other and don't look down, oh, and hang on for dear life when the path got wet. It wasn't so bad once you got the hang of it. He kept a steady pace, refusing to relax until he reached the bridge. Only then did he allow himself to sit down and take a breather.

Looking back the way he'd come, Rodney was ridiculously proud of himself for making it so far without getting himself killed. If Sheppard had been there he probably would have made some asinine comment, but Rodney was pretty sure he would have been proud, too.

Thinking about John sent a sharp pang through him. Atlantis was within his reach now, but he'd be fooling himself if he thought for one moment that things could ever be the same now that he'd been…changed.

And he _had _been changed. As much as he tried to deny it, he'd changed. He was stronger, for one, and when he checked his hands to see what kind of damage the rocky cliffs had inflicted, he'd found that they'd already completely healed. So, yeah…not entirely human anymore. Plus, there was the weird hair thing and the fact that he'd apparently shrunk, and that made no sense whatsoever.

And then there was the hunger! Never in his life had he been this hungry without passing out. He figured his new metabolism must work differently than what he was used to. He just didn't want to think about what he might have to do to satisfy his hunger now that he was, well, different.

It was his hunger that drove him to get moving again—the possibility of stealing some food in town foremost in his thoughts. He followed the path that hugged the small stream leading into town. Great clouds of those pesky, biting insects swarmed amidst the tall grasses along the path, but they steered clear of Rodney. In fact, they seemed to go out of their way to avoid him. Rodney smirked at that—it seemed his transformation had one perk, at least.

With Byleist taken out of the equation, Rodney didn't have to worry about the villagers being warned of his arrival and he was able to approach Kalell without being confronted by any jumbo warriors. But as he drew closer to town, Rodney veered off the path to avoid being spotted by accident. He kept to the outskirts of town looking for a good vantage point where he could get a good look at the villagers without being seen himself. It took some searching, but Rodney eventually managed to squeeze himself into a dense patch of flowering reeds that bordered the town's main square.

Before he could even think about stealing food, Rodney knew he had to find the man who'd been given his GDO during the ceremony. He could make do without his boots and his gun, but unless he wanted to end up as a bright flash against his home 'gate's shield, he _had _to get his GDO back.

The torches around the town square were just being lit for the night, casting their flickering orange glow on the uneven cobblestone, when Rodney spotted the man he'd been looking for. A young man in his late twenties or early thirties, he was only slightly smaller in stature than most of the Pawnim guards. He carried an unwieldy, oversized bag in his arms, but it didn't seem to bother him. He had the purposeful gait and proud demeanour of a man satisfied with his lot in life…which pissed Rodney off. The guy was living high off the honour bestowed on him from receiving one of the prime relics at Rodney's sacrificial ceremony, and he had no right to look so happy about it. The bastard.

Rodney extricated himself from his hiding place, careful not to rustle the reeds and attract undue attention. Sticking to the shadows as much as possible, Rodney skirted the main square, keeping the man in his sights the whole time. He followed him down a deserted side street and around two more corners before the man stopped in front of a house at the far corner of a long block of row housing.

Standing in the dark recess of a doorway three houses down, Rodney watched as the man set his bag on the ground, noting the metallic clank the contents made as they settled. The size and shape of the bag, combined with the clanging noises that came from it, told Rodney that he was carrying swords—probably those lethal-looking Bat'leth type swords the Pawnim guards wore. 

The man was most likely a sword smith—which explained his high status amongst his people. To be a successful sword smith at his age had to be a real accomplishment in the eyes of a race of warriors like the Pawnim.

As Rodney watched from his hiding spot (strategic concealment location, he mentally corrected), a rectangle of inviting golden light spilled across the narrow pavement. Even from three doors down Rodney could smell the mouth-watering aroma of hot food coming from the open doorway. His stomach growled so loudly that Rodney worried the man might actually hear it.

The man disappeared inside his house, dragging the bag behind him. The door closed with a soft thump and the little side street was plunged into darkness once more. Rodney forced himself to ignore the noisy demands of his belly and waited several minutes before venturing closer to the house.

The corner house was easily twice the size of its neighbouring units, and Rodney expected to find it lushly furnished. But when he finally got up the nerve to peek into the largest front window, what he found was a humbly bedecked home. The main room was plain, with worn-out wooden floors and equally worn-out chairs, the thin material exposing stuffing in places. The main focus of the room was an impressively large stone fireplace, its heavy wooden mantelpiece laden with trophies and samples of the sword smith's work. And there, dead centre and beautifully framed, was Rodney's GDO.

Rodney grinned. He'd been anticipating a long, tedious search in the middle of the night, but it looked like this was going to be a cake walk. Now all he needed to do was lay low until the guy and his wife went to bed, sneak into the house, grab what was rightfully his and be outta there. No problem.

Rodney crept around the side of the building, peering through windows along the way. He passed a room that looked like it might be a workshop, where the sword smith completed some of the more intricate work on his swords. The next window revealed a dining room, and the man was seated at a table set for one, luckily facing away from the window. A mousy young woman wearing the rough, patched clothes of the poorest class was busy lighting the candles and fussing over her employer with bland disinterest. This was good—a table set for one meant the man was single, and that meant there would be fewer people to worry about once he got around to breaking into the place.

At the back of the house, Rodney climbed over a knee-high picket fence into the backyard. To his delight, there was a back door and a large window which had been left open to allow the cool night breeze into the kitchen. Rodney eyed the platter of roasted meat and vegetables with a hunger that seemed to strike him bone deep.

It was pure luck that the mousy, lank-haired serving girl was preoccupied with her duties when she bustled into the kitchen, otherwise she'd have to have been blind to miss the stranger standing at the window leaving puddles of drool on the sill. Rodney ducked out of sight, half expecting her to raise the alarm, but she continued going about her business in a docile, puttering way, humming a pretty tune to herself. After a while, Rodney heard the GDO thief bellowing for his meal from the dining room, and the humming stopped.

The hours ticked by uneventfully, and Rodney cursed his luck at having to break into the house of the only night hawk in town. All the other homes had gone dark ages ago and Rodney was beginning to wonder if this guy ever slept, when the downstairs lamps were finally doused. He heard the front door open and close and the muffled clacking of heeled boots on cobblestone that marked the departure of the serving girl.

It was time to get back what was rightfully his.

The next few minutes were nerve-wracking as he waited until the upstairs lights went out, signalling that the man had gone to bed at last. It was obvious that there wasn't a lot of crime in Kalell, because the man had left his door unlocked and the window wide open. As quietly as he could, Rodney pushed the back door open, cringing at every squeak it made.

He tested each floorboard before daring to put his whole weight on them, afraid of hitting a creaking board that might alert the man upstairs. It was slow going, but eventually Rodney arrived at the stone fireplace in the main room. With trembling hands, he reached up and lifted the framed GDO off its hook. He debated for a moment on whether he should take it out of the frame here or wait and carry the bulky frame around until he could find someplace more secure to do it. It was a huge, heavy frame, and it could really slow him down…

Mind made up, Rodney flipped the frame over and pried the back free, popping the GDO out of its casing with very little noise or fuss. He strapped it around his wrist, the familiar weight of it comforting him. He had taken back a piece of his life, and it felt good.

Now that he had what he'd come for, Rodney wasted no time getting back into the kitchen so he could leave the way he'd come in. But as he passed the platter of leftovers sitting on the kitchen table his stomach forcefully reminded him that food was his new priority. He stopped in his tracks and slowly circled the scraps, searching for a bone with a decent amount of meat left on it. He found what looked like a t-bone steak with the filet side left untouched and greedily grabbed it up and started gnawing at it. It was heavenly, and Rodney wolfed it down, barely chewing each piece long enough to soften it before swallowing. His stomach rumbled and churned in its eagerness to digest the meat.

A loud bang behind him startled him into dropping the hunk of meat and he spun around, eyes wide, greasy mouth slack with fear. Standing in the kitchen doorway was the furious homeowner, a long Bat'leth sword held aggressively in his hands, glinting in the soft moonlight from the window.

"Give it back to me," the man growled.

Rodney's mouth flapped uselessly, his eyes darting towards the door, which was now on the far side of the table. Would he be able to reach it before the swordsman? It was too close a call to make, so he decided to stall. "Give what back?" he asked in a squeak.

"Byleist's gift," the man barked at him. "I saw how you desecrated its resting place and I know you have it. Give it back now and I won't summon the guards for an execution."

Execution? Rodney saw it all play out in his mind's eye—the guards storming the place and marching him off towards the volcano again. Only this time there would be no Wraith dart beam to collect him and save him from burning to death. There was only one thing to do and he had to do it fast or the man would be upon him.

He ran. Darting around the table and diving for the door, Rodney was yanking on the door knob when the collar of his coat tightened around his throat. He was dragged backwards, his greasy hands slipping free of the door knob as his feet struggled to stay beneath him. There was a scuffle, with Rodney trying to twist in the man's grasp while the swordsman tried to hold him off one-handed, his other hand holding tightly onto the weapon.

"Give it to me!" the man shouted. "I am within my rights to kill you myself for thieving my property!"

Rodney panted and strained against the man's grip. "No! I need it!" he wheezed, and with a sudden surge of strength, he flipped the tall swordsman onto his back, landing heavily on top of him. It was a move that Teyla had taught him, and it was the first time it had ever worked. A smug smile tugged at his lips, but it vanished abruptly when he felt a hot wetness spreading between their two bodies. It was then that Rodney felt the pain in his gut and he knew that he'd been stabbed.

The man looked up at him with shocked brown eyes, and as Rodney watched, those eyes dimmed, the light behind them slowly extinguished until there was nothing left of the man but a slack, empty stare.

Rodney pushed himself off the dead man on the floor, seeing the sword embedded in the man's chest, and pools of thick, dark blood fanning out on the tiles beneath him. He looked down at himself, where the sharp blade had sliced through the coat and deep into his skin. Blood still seeped from the wound, but as he watched, the skin knitted itself together, not even leaving a scar. He really _was_ a Wraith! He'd sapped the man's life force so he could regenerate!

He was still numb with shock when he realised that he was not alone in the room. A tiny gasp coming from the open kitchen door drew his attention, and his eyes met with the terrified gaze of a small child. The boy couldn't have been more than five years old, his bare feet mere inches from the spreading pool of his father's blood. Why didn't he know there was a kid upstairs? Why hadn't he checked? He should have known!

It was too much! The confusion and fear in the boy's eyes burned themselves into Rodney's brain—an image that he instinctively knew would haunt him forever. He had to get out of there. There had been too much noise, and soon there would be guards banging down the door, and if Rodney was still there, he'd be a dead man. Not that he didn't deserve it! He'd taken another man's life; made an orphan of the little kid standing in front of him. He deserved whatever punishment they could throw at him.

But he was scared. He didn't want to die.

With one last glance at the dead swordsman and his son, Rodney scrambled to his feet and lunged for the door. His hands, slick with blood, slipped uselessly on the knob and he fought with it for a panicky minute until the lock gave and the door opened onto the cool night air. He was running and jumping over fences, weaving through obstacles in a mindless panic, only distantly aware of the sound of screaming coming from behind him.


	10. Chapter 10

* * *

There was no casket. No urn with ashes to spread throughout the vastness of space as Rodney's will requested. All they had to mark the passing of one of the greatest minds in human history was a simple wreath of flowers. To John it felt wholly inadequate and it chafed at him as much as the starched collar of his dress uniform.

Standing next to him, Ronon looked equally uncomfortable, and John guessed that it was only partly due to the outfit he had on. The tall Satedan warrior was stuffed into a black suit a size too small for him, and he kept shifting and shrugging his shoulders to adjust the jacket on his broad frame.

Teyla, likewise, was dressed in black for the memorial service, but if she was uncomfortable, with the clothes or the circumstances, she hid it well. John looked at them both with a touch of pride. He knew they had both seen more than their fair share of death in their lives, and he also knew that the three of them shared a soft spot for their lost, cantankerous team mate. So it said a lot about them that they'd been willing and able to set aside their own grief to give him the support he'd needed over the last couple of days.

Thanks to them and Elizabeth, John was starting to come to grips with Rodney's death. It had hit him far harder than he ever would have expected, but he couldn't let his grief get in the way of his duty. He was the military leader of Atlantis, and people looked to him to keep the city safe. He wasn't about to let them down. Earlier in the morning, he'd asked Elizabeth for permission to return to Earth to deliver the news to Rodney's sister in person. She'd looked seriously worried until he'd assured her that he intended to come back after the funeral.

So now they were gathered in the Gate Room, civilians and military alike crowded around the large, white lilied wreath which leaned against a plain wooden podium, waiting for Sheppard to say a few words before he took his team back with him to Earth.

John approached the podium, receiving an encouraging pat on the back from a watery-eyed Dr. Beckett. He turned to face a sea of wan, down-trodden faces. Zelenka, red-eyed and pale, and surrounded by a supportive clutch of scientists, blinked at John stoically.

Against Carson's orders, John had taken off his sling for the occasion, the added pain giving him something to focus on to help get him through it. Grasping the podium with his good hand, John softly cleared his throat and the room settled into respectful silence.

"Dr. Rodney McKay was an abrasive man," he started, surprising more than a few people. "He was a stubborn, egotistical hypochondriac with a chip on his shoulders the size of New York. At least, that's what most people saw when they looked at him. But those of us determined enough to get past all the bluster and sarcasm were allowed to see a glimpse of who the real Rodney McKay was.

"The real Rodney spoke with actions instead of words. Beneath the boasting and the complaints was a man who pushed himself to the breaking point to save this city and everyone in it, working miracles under the kind of pressure that would have crushed most people. He was the kind of man who didn't think twice before stepping in front of a loaded gun to protect a friend, or walking into an energy creature with nothing to protect him but a ten thousand year old ancient shield.

"It's true, he was riddled with insecurities and he was afraid of pretty much everything, but that's what made it all the more amazing that he was always able to do what we needed him to do. And if he was here today…" John choked on his words, willing back tears that he'd managed to hold back so well until now. After a painfully silent pause, he continued. "I never told him any of this. I wish I had. I guess I just thought there would be more time."

John stepped away from the podium, the rest of his prepared speech cast aside in the wake of his near breakdown. He kept his eyes downcast, because seeing the tears in his friends' eyes was making it that much more difficult to keep it together. Dr. Weir joined him at the podium, resting a friendly hand on his back, and she was about to speak when the stargate whirred to life behind them.

All eyes lifted towards the operations centre. Everyone knew that there was no one currently off world, so an incoming wormhole could only mean bad news. Sergeant Lennox, a British recruit freshly arrived from the SGC, stared anxiously at the 'gate controls, very much aware that he was in the spotlight.

The shield kicked in the moment the seventh chevron locked in place, preventing the backsplash of the opening wormhole from forming. Lennox checked the monitors and frowned. "Dr. Weir, we're receiving an IDC. It's Dr. McKay's."

There was a general stirring throughout the Gate Room at the news and Weir shot Sheppard a confused glance. Sheppard scowled, feeling his simmering hatred of the Pawnim people bubbling to the surface.

"The Pawnim never gave us back Rodney's belongings," Sheppard said, coming up with the only explanation that made sense. "They must have got Rodney to give them his IDC before…" John couldn't finish what he'd begun to say, he was so angry. The thought of what they might have done to his friend to get that information…

Weir gave him a shrewd look as she considered her options. A security team arrived on the scene, taking up their standard positions around the 'gate—proof that young Lennox was on the ball. Elizabeth frowned and Sheppard knew he was not going to like her decision.

"Lower the shield," she said. "If it _is _the Pawnim, I'd like to meet them face to face—they have a lot to answer for." Her voice held the promise of retribution, and that was enough to get John on board. Sheppard's expression darkened and a grim smile formed on his face as he cooked up scenarios in his head concerning Tav or Ing Tal alone in an interrogation room with him.

Up in the control room, Lennox hesitated briefly before cutting off the 'gate's shield. The scientists and civilians filtered their way to the back to allow the soldiers to percolate forward and form a protective barrier between them and whatever was about to come through the 'gate.

For a few seconds nothing happened and the tension spiked in the Gate Room as each of them envisioned the worst possible situation they could imagine. When the event horizon finally rippled and a lone figure staggered through the 'gate, there was a collective gasp followed by a babble of confused murmurings.

A young man, covered in dried blood and wearing a dishevelled Wraith's coat lurched forward into the crowd. His hair was a mass of wild, light brown curls, and he couldn't have been more than twenty years old, but that face was unmistakable—as was the resolved-yet-petrified expression on said face.

Sheppard's mouth went dry as half-ran towards the man. It couldn't possibly be… "Rodney?"

A pair of baffled blue eyes fixed on him. And then, a moment later, they went wide with recognition. "John?" the man answered with a crooked smile, just before his eyes rolled back in his head and he crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

Dr. Beckett pushed his way through the crowd gathering around the fallen newcomer, shouting over his shoulder at Sgt. Lennox to call for a medical team. "Please, stand back everyone—I need a bit of room, here." Everyone but Sheppard took an obedient step or two back. Looking up at him, Beckett shook his head in exasperation but didn't bother trying to get John to move. It was pointless, and they both knew it.

John stood by, impatiently watching as Carson performed a cursory examination. He sensed Elizabeth standing behind him and he knew what she was thinking—what they were all thinking—that despite the familiar face, there was no possible way the man that came through the 'gate could be Dr. McKay. Rodney was dead—he'd witnessed his death himself—which meant that they had an imposter in their midst.

John looked down at the man wearing his friend's face. He looked so young and innocent lying there, his skin as pale and delicate-looking as porcelain against the dark spatters of brown-red blood. John felt a surge of protectiveness swell up inside him and he brutally shoved it back down. Because no matter how much he wanted this kid to be Rodney—no matter how desperately he needed his friend back—it wasn't really him. Couldn't be him.

* * *

Carson, sweating buckets in his hazmat suit, had spent the last several hours running test after test on the unconscious man they'd wheeled into the isolation room. And he had an audience. Ronon, Sheppard, Teyla and Elizabeth remained in the observation room above, waiting for the news. He only wished he could make sense of it himself.

Once he finished his tests, having run some of them twice to be sure, he finally doffed his hazmat suit and went upstairs to address his less-than-cheery cheering section. They weren't going to like what he had to say, but there was little else he could do but tell them the truth. As he entered the room four sets of expectant eyes swivelled towards him.

"Well…it's Rodney, give or take," said Carson with a heavy sigh.

"What do you mean, 'give or take'?" asked Dr. Weir. "Is he, or is he not Dr. McKay?"

"That's just it, Elizabeth—I can't be certain until we've had a chance to speak with him. I've run his DNA and it's almost an exact match, save a few wee anomalies. Plus, his blood work and brain scan turned out to be an exact match for our Rodney. If it weren't for those tiny differences in his DNA…"

"Tiny differences?" John scoffed. "Doc, he's a teenager!"

"Actually, I'd place him more in his early twenties, although I doubt his age is the result of any genetic changes in his DNA," Carson replied calmly. "Like I said, we'll know more once the lad is awake."

"Do you have any idea when that might be?" asked Teyla. "When he arrived it looked like he was badly wounded."

"Aye. Well—most of the blood wasna his," Carson said, wondering again just what had happened to his friend…if, indeed, this was his friend at all. "Physically, he's perfectly healthy. His blood sugar was dangerously low when he arrived at first, but I put him on an IV drip and he levelled out remarkably quickly."

"Then why is he still unconscious?" Weir asked, looking down through the window at the young man lying in the hospital bed below.

"Whatever he's been through, it has undoubtedly been very traumatic," Carson answered. "He's sleeping, very deeply. Slept like a baby through all the tests—the poor boy's exhausted."

"Well, wake him up," Sheppard ordered. "We need answers."

"I most certainly will not," Carson snapped, personally affronted at the suggestion. "Rodney or not, that young man is my patient now, and he will wake up when he's good and ready. You'll just have to be patient."

Ronon pushed off from the wall he'd been leaning against and gave a dissatisfied grunt. Frustration poured off the Satedan in waves, and the order to be patient was clearly not sitting well with him.

Teyla looked at Ronon in sympathy. "It has been a very…tiring day," she stated gently. "Perhaps we should take this opportunity to eat and relax—I believe we have all missed lunch. And I'm sure Dr. Beckett will inform us the moment Rodney wakes up."

"You have my word," Beckett agreed readily, shooing the lot of them out of the observation room. Teyla had hit the nail on the head. Carson felt as if he'd been on an emotional rollercoaster all day, and now that the pressure was off and there was nothing left to do but wait, he wanted nothing more than to collapse on one of his own infirmary beds for a few hours.

He knew he could do just that if he really wanted—one of his staff could come get him once Rodney came around—but this was one vigil he intended to keep himself. And if he knew Sheppard and his team half as well as he thought he did, then he wouldn't be the only one waiting up all hours for their very own sleeping beauty to wake.


	11. Chapter 11

* * *

John, along with the rest of his team, was waiting in the observation room when the figure in the hospital bed below began to stir. It had been almost nine hours of nerve-wracking anticipation, during which Carson had finally banished Sheppard and the others from the isolation room because they were driving him up the wall. But at last the wait was over, and they were going to get some answers.

At the first sign of movement, Dr. Beckett jumped out of his chair and went over to Rodney's bedside. It was another few minutes before a sliver of blue iris was revealed between drooping eyelids.

"There you are," said Carson. "I was wondering when you were going to join us."

Rodney's eyes sprang fully open at the sound of the other man's voice. "Carson?" he asked, as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

"It's me," Carson replied cautiously. "It's alright—you're safe now."

Rodney looked around and spotted Sheppard, Ronon and Teyla through the observation window. Sheppard did his best to smile at him, but it felt forced and it must have looked that way to Rodney, too, because his face fell, conveying a deep sadness.

"Carson, you need to listen to me carefully," Rodney said with complete earnestness. "You have to lock me up in the brig and post guards on me, like, right away."

Carson's mouth curled up in a placating smile. "Son, I really don't think that'll be necessary," he said, his words tinged with humour.

Rodney lifted and lowered his arms a couple of times and then he stared at Carson as if he thought the Scott had gone mad. "I'm not strapped down?" he burst out incredulously. "You've gotta be kidding me! Have you people no sense of self-preservation? You need to strap me down, now!" he demanded.

Carson's eyebrows shot up at the bizarre request. "I assure you, there's no need for that. But if it makes you feel any better, I'll have you know there's a guard posted outside the door."

"What? Of _course_ that doesn't make me feel better! One guard? That's not nearly enough!"

Carson tilted his head up slightly and slid Sheppard a questioning glance up in the observation room. Sheppard shrugged back and gave the doctor a nod—erring on the side of caution was always a smart move, after all. Giving his radio a quick tap, John contacted Lorne and ordered him and his team down to the isolation room.

In the room below, Carson scowled up at him, making his view of needlessly restraining his patients crystal clear. Still, both the military leader of Atlantis and the patient himself were in agreement, so he had little choice. But as Carson moved to hold down Rodney's arm so he could strap it down, Rodney suddenly went ballistic, batting the doctor away while he frantically kicked to free himself from his blankets. The IV in Rodney's arm ripped loose, spattering patient and doctor alike with fine droplets of blood as Carson struggled to contain him.

"No! No, no—get away from me!" Rodney shouted. "Don't touch me!"

"Ye daft bugger! You're the one told me to put you in restraints," Carson huffed, backing away. "Make up your bloody mind."

Rodney's lips thinned into a straight line as his eyes shot daggers at Beckett. "Forgive me for not wanting my friend to end up a dried husk on the floor!" he barked, his chest heaving in the aftermath of their encounter.

"What are you on about?" asked the exasperated Scotsman.

At that moment Lorne and his team burst through the door as if they were expecting to find a hive ship's worth of Wraith waiting for them on the other side.

"It's about time," Rodney snarked. "Did you stop on the way to get pizza? What took you so long? Dangerous man, here!" he snapped, fingers pointing towards his own face.

Up in the booth, Sheppard smiled for the first time in days. It _had_ to be Rodney. Only Rodney could lay into Lorne with such vindictiveness while simultaneously demanding to be placed under guard.

"Hey, Rodney," John said, leaning eagerly into the mike, "any chance you think it might be safe enough for us to come down there now? We're all kind of curious to hear what happened to you."

Rodney seemed to consider it for a moment. "That should be fine," he agreed. "So long as these trained military monkeys promise not to hesitate to shoot me at the first sign of trouble… And when I say shoot, I mean stun—you got that, right?" he asked anxiously, turning his wide blue eyes on Lorne for confirmation.

John, Teyla and Ronon shared a quick smile and filed out of the observation room, which, over the last several hours had started to smell more and more like the inside of the men's locker room. On their way down, they met up with Dr. Weir, who'd been alerted to the change in Rodney's status by Lorne. Greetings were nodded before they entered the now-crowded room. John noted uneasily that Elizabeth had on her 'serious business' face and he started feeling pre-emptively defensive on behalf of his friend.

"Elizabeth, good," said Rodney. "I'm glad you're here—saves me the trouble of having to go through all this a second time."

Dr Weir's eyebrows rose slightly at the very Rodney-like words and attitude coming from the young man on the bed. But before she could get a word out, Rodney was off and running again, his face and hands animated as he launched into a hair-raising account of the events that occurred after being thrown into the volcano. He was sailing along at a respectable clip when Carson interrupted him.

"Hold on a moment," the doctor jumped in after Rodney had explained what he believed the machine was designed to do. "Are you telling us that the Wraith came about as the result of a messed up Asgard genetic experiment?"

"Yes, Carson; you get a gold star for managing to keep up," Rodney quipped. "Now, if I can get back to my story?"

"Aren't the Asgard those tiny, big-headed aliens like the one on the Daedalus?" asked Ronon, his brow crunched up in confusion.

"Yes. So?" asked Rodney impatiently.

Ronon crossed his arms more firmly across his midriff as if to help support his argument physically. "They're tiny—like little kids. I could easily snap one in half like a twig. But the Wraith…"

"Yes, yes; believe it or not, I don't need you to connect the dots for me," said Rodney with his trademark annoyance. "The reason the Asgard look the way they do now is because of the degenerative side effects of their cloning process. Basically, Hermiod's current body is a copy of a copy of a copy and so on, and each successive copy is genetically inferior to the previous one. Hermiod's original body, which most likely ceased to exist tens of thousands of years ago, was not all that different from our own. According to Samantha Carter, who saw one of their preserved ancestors, the Asgard were once a tall, lean and mostly androgynous race of people. Which, when combined it with iratus bug DNA, led to the creation of the Wraith."

John couldn't help wincing at the mention of iratus bugs. He couldn't fathom why anyone would willingly manipulate their DNA to become more like the hideous creatures, no matter what kind of benefits were involved.

With another complaint or ten about the constant interruptions, Rodney continued to relate his story to the wrapt attention of his audience. There was total silence in the room when he reached the part where he fought the swordsman.

John's eyes narrowed suspiciously when Rodney's account abruptly ended with the Pawnim man looking up at him as he bled out on the kitchen floor. There was more to the story, John was sure of it. The way Rodney's face had gone grey at the end…there was something he wasn't telling them, and whatever it was, it had to be pretty damn bad if it ranked as 'unspeakable' compared to being genetically altered and fed on by a Wraith. He had a feeling he knew what it was, and decided to dig a little.

"So…it was an accident, then," John stated matter-of-factly.

"Hardly." Rodney humphed and sneered at him, but the look lost some of its impact coming from such an innocent-looking young face. "Were you even listening? I drained the life right out of him!"

"He bled to death," John corrected. "On his own weapon, I might add. You were only defending yourself. And unless you got off on it…"

"No—of course not!"

"…or he ended up a dried-up, withered old man…"

Rodney didn't respond this time, but he looked uncertain, so John took that as a 'no'.

"…then you're _not_ a Wraith, Rodney. You're just the victim of really bad timing." John was fairly certain he'd got at the heart of the matter. He could read every emotion that crossed young Rodney's face—it was even more expressive than the face he was used to seeing—and what he saw there was fear and doubt, a touch of hope and a crap-load of guilt.

Next to him, Carson cleared his throat, effectively drawing the focus of everyone in the room. "Rodney, I'd like to run a few more tests in light of what you've told us, including a full body scan," he said, his voice taking on the no-nonsense tone he always got when he was about to subject his patient to hours of tedious and invasive tests.

Rodney flinched. "It's bad, isn't it?" he asked, letting his inner hypochondriac out to play. "Am I green or something? Or, or did my eyes go all weird like a Wraith's? What aren't you telling me?"

"You mean you don't know?" Carson asked, stunned.

"Know what?" Rodney's worried eyes jumped from one of them to another until they settled on Sheppard. "What did that machine do to me?" he demanded, his voice squeaking slightly at the end.

John swallowed and fixed Rodney with a grim look. "It's not pretty," he said, knowing full well that he was being an asshole, but desperately needing to lighten the mood. "Doc, you got a mirror around here?"

Carson's lips thinned as he gave John a stern, disapproving glare, but he reached into one of the drawers of his portable equipment cabinet and, after a bit of rummaging, handed Sheppard a small, hand-held mirror.

John made as if to give Rodney the mirror, but snatched it back at the last second. "I just want to say, for the record, that I think the hair looks cute," he said with a sly smirk, and he handed his friend the mirror.

It was at times like this that John really wished he kept a camera with him at all times, because the astonishment on Rodney's face was absolutely priceless. Long, nimble fingers danced over high cheekbones and thicker, fuller eyebrows before confronting the pile of wavy, light-brown hair that stuck out from his head in all directions. An expression of awe mixed with confusion lit up the youthful features, and his blue eyes fairly sparkled.

"That's—that's not possible!" Rodney breathed, his eyes still glued to the mirror, marvelling at the experience of coming face to face with a younger, but still familiar, reflection of himself. "There's no way that genetic manipulation could result in…in this!"

Carson's serious blue gaze snuck into Rodney's line of sight as he forced the mirror down onto the other man's lap to get his full attention. "That's why I'd like to run some more tests," Carson reminded him. "I have a theory, and if I'm right, then it's possible you may have just stumbled across a means of defeating the Wraith once and for all."


	12. Chapter 12

* * *

Rodney suffered through Dr. Beckett's battery of tests with the bare minimum of complaints—for Rodney, at any rate. He was still not convinced that he hadn't been turned into a life force-sucking mutant, despite Carson's reassurances that the variations in his DNA were minimal. But at least while he was being subjected to endless tests he was too preoccupied to dwell on the events of the last couple of days.

Couple of days! It felt more like he'd been gone for years—that he'd lived a lifetime of pain and suffering since the last time he'd set foot on Atlantis.

As Rodney sat on his designated infirmary bed waiting for Carson to review the test results, Ronon arrived bearing a tray heaped full of food from the commissary. The young Satedan—who was now, oddly, physically older than him—said nothing as he placed the tray on Rodney's lap.

Rodney ignored the other man's probing stare as the sight of his dream meal succeeded in blotting out all other stimuli. Salisbury steak smothered in rich gravy, mashed potatoes, a huge garden salad with a few of his favourite Athosian veggies thrown in, and a thick slab of French bread. He was aware that he was grinning like a loon, but he didn't care! He was starving. It felt as though he'd never eaten before in his life, and he laid into the meal as if he might never get the chance to eat again.

Out of the corner of his eye he caught Ronon draping himself over the back of a chair, looking strangely satisfied. About what, Rodney couldn't begin to guess.

"What?" Rodney asked around a mouthful of steak.

"You're eating," Ronon replied simply, one eyebrow lifting knowingly.

"Of course I'm eating—I'm hungry," Rodney shot back, perplexed.

"I guess it's just good to know your appetites haven't changed," Ronon said with a semi-shrug that scarcely managed to raise one shoulder.

Rodney blinked, a forkful of potatoes stalled partway to his mouth as he pondered what Ronon had said. He was hungry for _food_. There were no other weird cravings or urges to feed off the life energy of the people around him. A slow smile spread across his face. "Huh. You're right," he muttered.

Ronon rumbled out a chuckle and stood, ruffling Rodney's hair in a very annoying way before stalking out of the infirmary.

Without Ronon to distract him, Rodney was able to focus entirely on his food. He savoured every morsel, blissing out on the texture of the potatoes and the salty flavour of the beef. Even the lettuce tasted fantastic—fresh and crisp in his mouth. His eyes rolled back behind closed lids and he actually groaned out loud at the first bite of the still-warm bread which melted against his palate.

"Enjoying it?" came a familiar Scottish brogue off to his right. Rodney opened his eyes to find Carson smiling fondly down at him.

Rodney nodded back, smiling. "Mm. It's incredible! Maybe it's because I haven't eaten anything in days…" he said, his voice trailing off as his brain caught up with his mouth. It _had_ been days, hadn't it? "I should be…"

"In a hypoglycaemic coma, aye," Carson finished for him. "I want you to come and have a look at this." Carson didn't wait for him, simply assuming he would follow. Which, of course, Rodney did, more than happy to have an excuse to get out of bed.

Rodney padded barefoot over to Carson's work station where the doctor was positioning a sample in the electron microscope. With an excited smile, Carson stepped aside and gestured for Rodney to have a look. Rodney indulged his friend, looking through the eyepiece and fiddling with the knobs until the slide came into sharp focus. He was looking at cells—he knew enough biology to know that much—but beyond that he might as well be staring at a Jackson Pollock painting for all the sense it made.

"Yes, very pretty," he said sarcastically. "What is it I'm supposed to be looking at, exactly?"

"That, Rodney, is a sample of your skin cells. Once I knew what it was I was looking for, it wasna hard to find. D'you see the wee purple circles in each cell?"

"Carson, this makes as little sense to me as the continued success of Britney Spears. Will you just tell me what you've found already?"

Carson visibly deflated at the remark, but as far as Rodney was concerned, the man deserved it for toying with him. Didn't he know how much it was killing him to be left in the dark like this?

"Fine, be like that," snipped Carson. "Those tiny purple dots are mitochondria. But they're not the kind normally found in humans. They're similar to something I found in the Wraith samples I've studied, and I believe they're what's responsible for cell regeneration in the Wraith, allowing for rapid healing and virtually halting the aging process."

"Rodney's mind whirled at the implications of what Carson was telling him. "You mean I'm stuck like this forever?" To be honest, he had mixed feelings about that. While it felt great to be at his physical peak again, the thought of staying that way while everyone he cared about gradually died off wasn't pleasant. As much as he hated the thought of dying, the thought of having to watch everyone else die was far worse.

"Not necessarily, no," Carson hedged.

Rodney was becoming frustrated and he snapped, "Quit dancing around it and tell me!"

"Tetchy," Carson chided, but he seemed to take it in stride. "As you may recall, the Wraith's regenerative abilities are directly related to how recently they've fed. Cut off from their food source, the Wraith become as susceptible to injury and cell death as humans—which is why they hibernate between cullings."

Rodney frowned, trying to make sense of it in terms of what it meant for him, personally. "Correct me if I'm wrong," he said, smirking at the absurdity of that happening, "but I can't feed off people, so by your theory those little purple dots should be dormant. And yet I walked away from a sword fight without as much as a manly scar to show for it."

"That's true," Carson agreed readily. "And I've also noticed the way the needle marks disappear the instant I've finished taking your blood. You're absolutely right—you're not a Wraith any more than Teyla is, and you can't feed the way they do. It's my guess that your regenerative abilities are a direct result of the Wraith's attempt to feed on you. The enzyme he released into your system must have triggered the dormant mitochondria to become active, drawing energy from the Wraith through the link he created between you. Sort of like a car battery needing a boost and having the other car supply the jumper cables."

"Huh. So basically it was a reverse feeding," Rodney said, reluctantly admitting that Carson's theory was valid—as far as was possible in a soft science like medicine, at least.

"Aye. I'm fairly certain it's also the reason for your…rejuvenation," Carson added.

"But this is temporary, right?" asked Rodney, confused by some of his friend's previous word choices. He was dismayed to see the Scott's brow furrow in uncertainty.

"I don't know," Carson admitted with a slight wince.

"Don't _know_?" Rodney barked.

"Look, it's not as if I've ever come across anything even remotely like this before. Most likely the regenerative effects will fade as they do in the Wraith. But I won't lie to you—there is a good chance that they might be permanent. The introduction of the Wraith enzyme into your system may have supercharged your batteries, as it were. The effects of the experiment on a human subject are simply too difficult to predict without further study."

"Great. Big help," Rodney muttered.

Carson levelled him with a beleaguered glare. "I thought you'd be thrilled at the idea of becoming virtually invulnerable. You've admitted yourself that you'd jump at the chance to get your hands on another personal shield."

"Yes, well, the point of a personal shield is to prevent pain and injury, something, I might add, that is far more preferable than suffering first and healing quickly afterwards." For some reason, Rodney couldn't bring himself to voice his very real fear of being the last man standing on Atlantis…even if he did think it was light punishment for what he'd done to that Pawnim man and his kid.

* * *

The meeting with Dr. Weir and Dr. Beckett went far better than Sheppard had hoped it would. He'd been prepared to go to bat for Rodney, ready to argue that his friend had no more Wraith DNA than Teyla and that, if anything, the changes caused by the machine were more of a benefit than a hindrance to Rodney—especially in the field.

But Weir had listened to Dr. Beckett's findings with growing interest, her eyes lighting up with the defensive possibilities made possible by the Asgard device. Beckett theorized that if Rodney was ever attacked by the Wraith again, it would result in the Wraith's death and a temporary rejuvenation and renewed regenerative capabilities in Rodney. As long as Rodney showed no negative side effects from the device, it might be possible to 'inoculate' all the Atlantis personnel against the Wraith. With proper planning and some strategic seeding of inoculated people on regularly culled planets, it could turn out to be the best solution they'd come up with so far for ridding the Pegasus Galaxy of the Wraith altogether.

When the subject of Rodney being allowed to return to active duties arose, Elizabeth tilted her head in consideration, and then simply gave the two of them a nod. As easy as that.

John restrained himself from jumping out of his chair to go tell Rodney the good news. Instead, he played the role of the ever-cautious military leader, saying, "I should probably run him through some basic training—make sure the new and improved McKay is up to field work." He realised he sounded like a kid who wanted to play with a new toy, but he didn't care. He had his team back! It was only now truly sinking in and his eagerness to get back to Rodney must have shown on his face.

"You do what you feel is necessary," Elizabeth agreed with a knowing smile. "Just…take it easy on him—he's been through quite an ordeal these last few days."

John nodded, attempting to look serious, and then he was off, bounding towards the infirmary to free his youngest team mate from the clutches of Beckett's medical staff.

When he got there, he was not surprised to find Rodney alone in the infirmary, most likely having infuriated the nurses enough to make them flee. He was sitting up, facing away from him somewhat on his bed, and concentrating hard on something in his hands. John was about to let out a cheery 'hey, Rodney!' when he saw the flash of steel in Rodney's hand. Before he could reach him, Rodney had sliced into his own arm with the scalpel he was holding, gasping and cringing as blood welled up and beaded thickly along the deep incision.

"Rodney! What the _hell_!" John shouted, causing his friend to look up in alarm. John instinctively knocked the surgical instrument out of Rodney's hand, sending it skittering across the floor. He stood gaping at his friend for a moment, trying to comprehend what it was he'd just witnessed. Rodney said nothing, merely looking up at him like a trapped rabbit, his eyes wide and mouth gaping, as he cradled his injured arm against his chest.

Maybe, John thought, just maybe, Rodney wasn't doing as well as they'd thought.


	13. Chapter 13

* * *

"What the hell do you think you're doing, McKay?" John shouted, making Rodney flinch ever so slightly before composing himself again.

"It was just a test, Colonel," Rodney answered curtly, still stinging inside from the accusatory tone John had used with him. "To see if I still have the ability to heal." Taking a wad of Kleenex from his bedside table, he scrubbed the blood off his arm and showed Sheppard the fresh, pink new skin where there should have been an ugly gash.

"And you didn't think a pin prick was good enough—you had to try and kill yourself?" John's anger was touching, in a way, and Rodney was beginning to regret what he'd done, if only because of how much it seemed to upset John. Of course, he wasn't about to let John know that.

"Don't be so melodramatic," Rodney replied dryly. "It was a shallow cut—I'm not an idiot." Rodney defiantly jutted out his chin and forced himself to look directly at John. It was clear from the frown that hooded Sheppard's eyes that he wasn't buying it. John had been there; he'd seen how deep the cut had been and Rodney's stomach twisted at the thought of what might have happened if the wound hadn't healed right away. "Okay…I might have cut a little deeper than I'd intended," Rodney admitted, "but I assure you it wasn't the first test I'd tried. I was fairly certain of the outcome."

"Fairly certain?" John retorted, his voice as sharp as the scalpel had been.

Rodney shifted uncomfortably under the other man's glare. "Yes. 'Fairly certain' is as good as it gets when dealing with the unknown. Last I checked, my newfound abilities didn't include prescience." Rodney's lips thinned crookedly as he drilled John with a glare, daring the colonel to keep arguing.

John chewed the inside of his lip as if deciding whether or not it was worth the time and effort to pursue the subject. Eventually, though, his head dropped an inch or two and he conceded temporary defeat. "I came down here to spring you from the infirmary," he said with reluctance.

"Oh. Good," Rodney answered, perking up instantly.

"Not so fast," John said, his hand held out to stop Rodney from getting off the bed. "After the stunt you just pulled you're not going anywhere unless you have someone with you. Understood?"

As much as Rodney disliked the idea of having a babysitter, he was in dire need of a change of scenery, and the thought of a hot shower and clean clothes was almost enough to make him whimper. "Whatever," he replied, trying and failing to come off as nonchalant. "Are you volunteering for the first watch?"

"Might as well, seeing as I'm here," John drawled, showing off his innate nonchalance as if to rub it in.

Rodney huffed an appreciative chuckle and hopped off the bed. "Alrighty then. First stop my quarters, James." He headed for the door with his escort close behind, and he didn't have to see him to know that John was shaking his head at him in amusement.

* * *

The hot shower was amazing, the pounding spray easing some of the tension that had been building over the last few days. What was even better was getting his hands on a comb and taming the unruly waves of hair he'd so hated when he was growing up. The first chance he got, he'd be getting it chopped off.

Since he was officially still off-duty, he got dressed in his casual clothes, throwing on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. To his dismay, he was swimming in them—he'd forgotten how wiry he'd been in his early twenties. Cinching up his belt, Rodney ventured out into his bedroom to find John stretched out like a big cat on his bed, apparently napping.

"I see you've made yourself comfortable," said Rodney in an obnoxiously loud voice.

"Very," was all the reaction he got. "You were in there for almost an hour, McKay. What'd you expect?" There was an edge of concern in John's voice, and Rodney had a pretty good idea that the man had been listening at the door the whole time, and that the lounging on the bed routine was for his benefit. John crossed his arms behind his head to raise it enough to look at him.

Rodney felt John's appraising gaze on him, taking him in from head to toe, and he felt weirdly self-conscious. "Well? What's the verdict?" he asked.

"I think we're gonna have to get you some new clothes," John replied, blinking lazily up at him in a way that made Rodney swallow hard.

Rodney clearly remembered his revelation in the Wraith cave and he knew that John meant something special to him, but he wasn't exactly sure what it was, or if it went both ways. The strange 'relationship' he shared with John was unlike anything he'd ever experienced before. Mostly it was friendship—he was pretty sure of that—but there was definitely more to it than that. He felt an almost blind trust where John was concerned, and that was frightening. Maybe it was simply because they'd saved each other's lives so many times; that had to have an impact on a friendship. And still…it was more than that, too.

"First thing's first, though," John continued, and Rodney refocused on the conversation. "Dr. Weir has asked me to retrain you for field work."

"Wh-What?" Rodney sputtered indignantly. "Why?"

"And I agree with her," John went on, ignoring Rodney's interruption. "Essentially you're a whole new person, Rodney. You're younger, fitter, probably more coordinated—and those are all good things—but the point is, you're different now. And I'd rather know what your new strengths and weaknesses are before we set foot through the 'gate again."

That made a surprising amount of sense to Rodney, even though he could feel the doubt and dismay playing across his face at the idea of having to re-qualify for the field.

"Look," said John with an understanding smile. "We'll start off with something easy, alright? After all, it's not like we can do any serious physical training until we get you a new set of workout clothes. So what say we begin with weapons training and target practice? Sound good?"

"Wonderful," Rodney replied sarcastically. "I'll try to contain my excitement." And here he'd been thinking John was his _friend_!

* * *

Much to Rodney's chagrin, his accuracy on the firing range had actually worsened since his last test. He found he couldn't concentrate like he used to, especially with John getting in his space all the time. It was very…distracting. But apparently his performance was good enough to meet Sheppard's requirements, because he received a grin and a pat on the back for his efforts. Again—very distracting.

After target practice, John took him on a charity drive through Atlantis to beg for cast-offs—a humiliating exercise in grovelling that resulted in a science uniform dotted with stains of an indeterminate nature, a well-worn pair of jeans, and a pair of sweat pants. What made the whole situation more unbearable was that everyone kept staring at him. Seriously—they should all be used to weird crap like this by now. More than once Rodney had lashed out at people for treating him like some wet-behind-the-ears kid. He found that some well-placed verbal abuse did wonders for restoring the proper degree of respect and fear.

A quick lunch break (far too quick, in Rodney's opinion), and then Sheppard and Ronon dragged him out for a run. Rodney made a point of complaining as frequently as humanly possible throughout the ordeal—and why run up stairs when there were perfectly good transporters all over the place? He was sweating profusely, his sides burned form the prolonged exertion and he was puffing like an asthmatic forty-year-old. But Flyboy and his sidekick Sasquatch were clearly born of the devil, because they kept harassing him to keep up, taking no pity on him.

When they finally slowed and stopped, Rodney's hair was plastered to his skull with sweat and he had murder on his mind. He vowed that as soon as he could breathe without a fire igniting in the middle of his lungs he was going to kill them both.

And then John said something that completely flummoxed him. "Congratulations, Rodney, you've just passed the Marine training course."

Ronon and Sheppard took turns thudding him on the back companionably, nearly knocking him off his numb feet. Rodney felt he really should still be angry with them—he still couldn't get enough air into his lungs and he was so overheated you could fry bacon on his head—but he'd passed the Marine course?! Rodney beamed an enormous grin at his demon-spawn team mates. He'd passed the Marine course!

Despite his rubbery legs, Rodney felt light on his feet and he practically floated back to his quarters on the high of his accomplishment. Given strict orders to shower, change and return to the commissary for a celebratory coffee break, Rodney was granted privacy for no more than twenty minutes. Failure to arrive on time would result in the removal of all future privacy privileges.

Rodney couldn't blame John for wanting to keep close tabs on him. He'd given John a hell of a scare back in the infirmary. To be honest, he'd scared himself too, a little. He honestly hadn't been intending to hurt himself that badly…but then, he hadn't really gone out of his way to take the proper precautions, either. All in all, he had to admit that it was a smart move not to leave him alone for long. Being alone gave him time to think, and strangely enough, thinking was something he really didn't want to do a lot of at the moment.

* * *

With two minutes to spare, a freshly-showered and changed McKay arrived at the commissary, dragging his weary bones over to the table where the rest of his team were waiting. Both Sheppard and Ronon looked disgustingly refreshed, which didn't seem fair at all when he, himself, felt like his muscles had undergone a thorough beating with a meat tenderizer. Teyla, too, looked happy and well-rested, and for the first time in days, Rodney felt every one of his thirty-nine years. Sort of ironic, under the circumstances, he thought.

"Colonel Sheppard tells me you ran the Marine training course," said Teyla as he sat down beside her.

"What, _that_ little jog? Really, I hardly broke a sweat! I don't know why the Marines make such a big deal about it." Rodney pointedly disregarded the looks volleying back and forth between the other men at the table and stayed focused on Teyla. She seemed genuinely impressed, her broad smile sending a much-needed boost to Rodney's ego.

"I have often heard them boast of the difficulty of the course," she replied generously, her brown eyes sparkling. "I look forward to our sparring session later this afternoon, Rodney. I have no doubt that your skills will impress me."

Rodney's eyes widened. "You're not serious. She can't be serious!" he pleaded, turning to Sheppard for support. The bastard just smirked at him.

"Of course I am not serious," Teyla assured him, placing a gentle hand on his arm. "You have done more than enough training for one day."

"Yes. Well…thank-you," Rodney said with a touch of smugness. "Now, I believe there was mention of a snack, earlier."

Sheppard shook his head with a smile and said, "you go right ahead, McKay. I've got performance reviews to go over before the Daedalus arrives. Teyla, Ronon," he added in farewell as he took his leave of them.

Ronon, too, got to his feet. "I need to hit the showers," he said, giving Teyla a pointed look, which she returned with an understanding nod. "Later, McKay."

Rodney gave the Satedan a brief wave and then he was alone with Teyla. She had that thing going on—that thing where she looked composed, but there was something gnawing at her that she wanted to discuss. Only Teyla could manage to look composed and uncomfortable at the same time, Rodney thought with a quirk of his lips.

"You don't have to stay, you know," he said after a while, just to break the non-tension. "I don't know what Sheppard told you, but I'm fine. I just had a temporary lapse of judgement." He turned his head to assess her reaction and bingo! He'd hit it on the head. She'd been asked to keep an eye on him, and she was reluctant to follow his orders.

"Rodney, I agree with John that you need the support of your friends right now," she replied, her expressive mouth curling into a kind smile. "I cannot even begin to understand what you must be going through. You must have many questions and concerns weighing on your mind."

"It was an _experiment_, Teyla," Rodney answered, doing his best to sound level-headed. "A really bad one, granted, but I promise that's all it was. Look, I know you mean well, but you don't have to watch me every minute. How much trouble could I possibly get into in a crowded commissary?"

Teyla studied him uncertainly, her eyes narrowing to slits as she read his body language. "I did have plans to visit Dr. Heightmeyer this afternoon…"

"Say no more!" Rodney said with a smile and a raised hand. "You go along, then. I'll be fine here until you get back." He tapped his ever-present laptop to prove his intentions were harmless.

She bowed her head once in agreement and graced him with a warm smile. "I will return in half an hour. I trust you will still be here?"

"Scout's honour," he replied, giving her the corresponding hand signal. She frowned slightly at the unusual gesture, but then the smile returned and she gave his shoulder a pat as she left. What was it about people being so touchy-feely with him lately, he wondered.

He watched her leave, saw her stop to whisper something to Cadman, who was sitting near the door, and then she was gone. Rodney had no doubt that she'd left Cadman instructions to keep an eye on him—passing the torch, as it were. But that was fine. All he wanted was a little peace and quiet to catch up on the lab reports that had been piling up in his absence.

Rodney sat staring at his laptop screen for ten minutes before he realised that he hadn't read a single word of the report he'd brought up. His mind had wandered back to that night in Kalell. Over and over again he saw the life fading from the swordsman's eyes, the thick pool of blood, black-red in the moonlight, the fearful, confused expression on the face of the man's little boy as he stared at the intruder that had killed his father. It was the kid's eyes, so bewildered and lost, that kept appearing in his mind's eye, sending cold chills down his spine.

Coffee. He needed coffee—and any excuse to get up and move around…to stop thinking.

Leaving his laptop open on the table, Rodney entered the short line-up for food. Commissary coffee wasn't nearly as potent as the stuff they kept in his lab, but it was better than nothing, and he filled a mug with the steaming black liquid, inhaling the aroma like a man in front of a firing squad savouring his last cigarette.

He went straight past the entrees and headed for the dessert cart. Today's selection included a date square that looked half decent, muffins topped with what looked like poppy seeds, and a delicious looking pie. Hesitating briefly, Rodney added the pie onto his tray, grabbed a fork and a napkin and carried it back to his table.

He sat in front of that pie for a long time, his fork, heaped high with the happy, yellow dessert, poised mere inches away from his mouth. Was he really going to do this, he wondered? Even _he _couldn't fool himself that this was part of some experiment. What he was contemplating here was death by lemon meringue pie. Plain and simple. One bite, and he might never have to see that boy's anguished face in his head ever again. One little bite of pie and he wouldn't have to survive to watch his friends—to watch John—die at the hands of the Wraith or whatever else the Pegasus Galaxy had in store for them. Just. One. Bite.


	14. Chapter 14

* * *

The fork inched closer and Rodney's tongue darted out to lick at his dried lips in heart-pounding anticipation. His eyes quickly scanned the mess hall to see if anyone was watching. There were people everywhere, but they were all busy talking with each other or otherwise absorbed in their own business. Only Cadman was looking his way, and she obviously didn't understand the significance of what he was about to do. And he could do it now, and no one would think to come to his rescue until it was too late. He could do it. Just another inch. He could smell the tang of lemon under his nose.

This was insane!

The random thought hit him like a hard slap in the face. It _was_ insane! He was _not_ suicidal—never had been. His life was far too valuable to be tossed aside so recklessly; he knew that, and had gone to great lengths to remind others of it, too. Therefore there had to be another explanation for his sudden bout of rash behaviour.

With that epiphany, Rodney dropped the fork onto his plate with a clatter, packed up his laptop and made towards the door of the commissary. Out of the corner of his eye he caught Cadman hurriedly gathering her things together and he paused beside her table.

"Are you coming, Cadman?" he asked the blonde Marine without even bothering to look in her direction. "I've got places to go, people to see." He felt her presence behind him as he strode down the corridor to the transporter. He stepped inside and waited until Cadman caught up with him, disregarding the peeved expression on her face.

The doors closed behind them and Rodney stared at the map screen trying to decide where he should go. If this was a chemical imbalance of some sort, then he should go see Carson, but if this was a psychotic episode or nervous breakdown kind of thing, then Heightmeyer was his best bet.

"Well?" Cadman asked impatiently, a frown puckering the skin above her nose. But at least she wasn't looking at him like he was a freak or an imposter.

Rodney poked the screen and a second later the doors opened. It appeared that his poking finger had a mind of its own, because they'd arrived in the section of the control tower where Colonel Sheppard's office was located. Not surprisingly, it was one of the least-frequented parts of the tower, and not a soul could be seen down the long stretch of hallway.

"Huh," Rodney muttered to himself. If his subconscious mind had decided that Sheppard was the one he needed to talk to, then who was he to argue? With Cadman pointlessly asking him questions as she trailed along behind him, Rodney made tracks towards John's office.

* * *

John was four performance reviews into his stack when Rodney burst into his office, an exasperated Cadman at his heels. "Rodney," he said in surprise. "I thought you were with Teyla and Ronon."

"Well I was supposed to be, yes." Rodney's reply was downright snippy. "And if they had stayed with me like you'd asked them to instead of pawning me off on Combat Barbie here, I wouldn't have tried to eat my way into an early grave with a piece of lemon pie."

"You did _what?_" John was on his feet, his chair clattering to the floor behind him. He may have actually shouted that last word, he couldn't be sure.

"Relax, Colonel, I didn't eat any of it," Rodney said as casually as if he was talking about the weather. "But the point is, there's something wrong with me and you need to fix it."

A soft cough interrupted them and Rodney spun around. "Cadman," he said. "What are you still doing here? Go away. Dismissed…or whatever."

Cadman peeked over Rodney's shoulder at Sheppard and he gave her a nod. He had a feeling this was one conversation Rodney wouldn't want spread around at girl's poker night. She gave him a hint of a nod in return and backed out the door, leaving John alone with Rodney. From the twinkle in her eye, he had a feeling she already had enough material for a good night's gossiping already.

"Now…where were we?" asked Rodney. "Ah, yes—you need to fix me."

John righted his chair and sat down, still too wound up over Rodney's proclamation to relax into his usual slouch. He formally gestured for Rodney to take the seat facing him.

"Thanks," Rodney said with a grateful smile as he sank into the chair. "Well?"

"Rodney…" Sheppard began, not really knowing where this was headed.

"I know what you're going to say," Rodney butted in, as John knew he would, "but despite evidence to the contrary, I am not infallible." Any attempt to interrupt at this point would be moot, so John leaned back and let Rodney take the stage. "I'll have you know that I've been through a hell of a lot over the last few days, more than any normal human could withstand, I daresay—and it's quite possible it has had a negative effect on my judgement. As you've probably discovered by now, my survival instinct is generally very strong…" John smirked; Rodney ignored him, "…but since the whole volcano thing I've been a little off my game."

"A little?" John said, his voice rising. "Rodney—you attempted suicide. Twice!"

"Technically it was only once," Rodney corrected him. "I told you, the first time was completely unintentional—it was an experiment. It doesn't count."

"Okay—once, then," John conceded. "But that's still a pretty big deal. Have you thought that maybe this is something you should be talking to Heightmeyer about?"

"Of course," Rodney said without hesitation. "And if it turns out you can't or won't help me out with this, then I'll go see her. I just thought that with your past experience with this sort of thing you might have some insights that could prove useful."

John frowned—Rodney had lost him. "Exactly what sort of thing are we talking about here?" he asked warily.

Rodney sighed impatiently at him, which was so typically Rodney that for a moment John could plainly see the weary, life-worn, forty-year-old behind the young face. "What we're talking about is our shared history of violence," Rodney explained slowly, as if he doubted John's ability to grasp his meaning. "You've killed people, I've killed people; I need you to tell me how you cope with it so I can get over this little slump and get back on track."

John gawped at Rodney, half expecting his friend to jump up and shout 'gotcha!' Unfortunately, this wasn't a joke, and Rodney was looking at him with a blend of faith and nervousness that made the seriousness of his request for help really sink in. Rodney honestly believed that John could cure him of his suicidal impulses with a few choice words of advice. It was crazy.

"You do realise that our experiences are nothing alike," John started. "I'm black ops trained, Rodney. I've knowingly and willingly pulled the trigger that ended a human life. What happened between you and the Pawnim sword smith was an _accident_. It's not the same thing at all. There's a big difference between killing in the line of duty and killing in self defence, you know."

"You weren't there, John," Rodney spoke so softly that John had to lean forward to hear him. Rodney kept his gaze locked on his hands which were clasped loosely in his lap, and John sensed that what was coming was going to be big. He waited through the silence until Rodney worked up the nerve to continue. It was uncomfortable—John had never been good at this kind of interchange—but Rodney had come to him for help and he wasn't about to turn him away.

After a long hesitation, Rodney finally found his voice. "I didn't tell you everything that happened that night," he began solemnly. "I—I keep thinking about it from his perspective, you know?" he asked, his wide eyes pleading with John to understand. "I broke into his house in the middle of the night and tried to steal something that meant a lot to him. And I was desperate, John. I must have looked desperate and dangerous, and he had a little boy sleeping upstairs. He must have thought…he was only defending his home and his family when he attacked me. You would have done the same."

Unable to hold his tongue, John replied, "That's where you're wrong, McKay. I would never have attacked an unarmed man. I would have tried talking to him first."

"Please, would you just—can I just get through this?" Rodney asked plaintively. "He _did_ try talking first. He said he wouldn't call the guards if I gave him back the GDO, but I couldn't do that—it was my only way home. And then I ran and he was on me and we fought…" Rodney paused, his eyes darting back and forth like he was seeing it all happening again, and maybe he was, John thought. "He was huge and furious, and he had one of those weapons—you know, like the kind the Klingons use?—but I took him down, and it was easy. It was almost effortless, which kind of scared me. And then I heard a sound… His kid must have seen the whole thing. I just looked over and there he was. John, the look on his face…" Rodney stopped, his eyes closed as he swallowed hard against the memory.

John felt the ache in his chest as if he had been there in Rodney's place, and he suddenly understood why his friend couldn't simply chalk it up to self defence and walk away from it. This wasn't the sort of thing a person could just sweep under the rug—not if the person had a conscience, and especially if that conscience was as strong as Rodney's was. Still, he felt he had to say something to make him feel better.

"I know you're having a hard time with this right now, but you've got to believe me—you did what you had to do to survive, and you made the right choice. Don't forget, the Pawnim had no qualms about throwing you into an active volcano."

Rodney's lips tightened bitterly. "And you think that justifies taking another man's life and orphaning his child? Thanks for the help, Dr. Phil; I'm sure I'll sleep much better now." The caustic sarcasm was accompanied by the loud scrape of Rodney's chair as he pushed it aside in a fit of anger and stormed out of the office before John could even point out that he'd forgotten his laptop.

"Okay," John muttered to his empty office, "what the hell was that?" It wasn't that he'd never witnessed McKay's sudden bursts of irritation or elation, and he was certainly familiar with the scientist's facility to brood and spout pessimism, but the rapid-fire switching between emotions was new. Come to think of it, Rodney had been volleying between depression and excitement ever since he woke up in the infirmary. It wasn't much of a leap to figure out that it was time for Rodney to pay Dr. Beckett a visit.

But in the meantime, he had a volatile and potentially suicidal astrophysicist to catch up with.

* * *

Carson's hair was still spiky-wet from his shower when he answered his door to find Colonel Sheppard and Rodney McKay waiting impatiently in the hallway outside his quarters.

"Gentlemen, what can I do for you?" he asked amiably, even though he knew full well this wasn't a social visit.

He watched Sheppard give McKay a prompting nudge and Rodney respond with a sidelong, evil glare, but it soon became clear that if he ever wanted to move this along it would be up to him. "So?" he asked them, rubbing his hands as if delighted to see them. "Is there a pressing reason why you came banging on my door? Or was it your sole purpose to drag me out of my shower so you could stand there like a pair of pantomimes while I catch cold?"

"If you don't tell him, I will," Sheppard told Rodney, making it sound like a threat. Rodney looked at him as if to say 'you wouldn't dare', but it seemed to work. The words tumbled out of his mouth in one long, streaming, garbled sentence, leaving scarcely enough room for breath and even less for interruption.

When he was done, Carson stood staring at him, arms akimbo, thinking he must have got water in his ears, because there was no way he'd heard him correctly. "Let me see if I've got this right," he said, his blue eyes steely to match the scolding tone of his voice. "You're telling me you tried to take your own life not once, but twice, today… and you only just now thought to bring it to my attention?" The two of them squirmed uncomfortably under his third-degree, which went a small way in appeasing him. "Did I not tell you to let me know the instant there was any change in your condition?" he demanded.

"Hello—impaired judgement!" Rodney shot back, and Carson had to admit it was a good point. "Sheppard and I think it might be a side effect of the Asgard device."

"I'd say that's a good bet," Carson agreed with a deep sigh. "Right. Let's get you back to the infirmary, shall we?" he said, including Sheppard in the invitation.

* * *

Carson rubbed his eyes in an attempt to rid them of the graininess brought on by a long evening squinting into microscopes and staring at computer readouts. But he had his answer at last, and it was one of those 'good news, bad news' sort of deals. As he came out of his office, he noticed that Rodney was sitting on an exam bed with his arms wrapped around his knees and his head hanging down, looking the very picture of misery. Sheppard was hovering nearby, looking like he wanted to comfort the man somehow, but completely clueless as to how to go about it.

Carson approached cautiously and cleared his throat. Two grim faces turned his way. "The good news," he said with a wavering smile, "is that the Wraith enzyme that was fuelling your cells' regenerative abilities is beginning to break down and is being released into your bloodstream. At this rate, you should be back to your old self in a matter of days."

"And the bad news?" asked Sheppard on Rodney's behalf.

Carson pursed his lips, deciding the best way to tell them. "The bad news is that as the enzyme is released in his bloodstream in spurts, Rodney experiences episodes of euphoria and impaired judgement—basically, he gets high off the enzyme—and in-between spurts, he crashes."

The colour in Rodney's face drained away, leaving him ashen. "Like when I took a dose of the enzyme to get past those guards on Ford's planet?" he asked, his mouth turning down at the thought of going through that kind of withdrawal again.

"No," Carson reassured him, "so far the enzyme is being released incrementally, which should make the withdrawal symptoms bearable. Nevertheless, I'd like to keep you here under observation for a few days, just in case your condition worsens." Rodney nodded numbly—which, in itself, was a sure sign that he wasn't feeling alright.

Carson got Rodney settled in for the night, giving him a mild sedative to help him sleep, and Sheppard took off, mumbling something about needing to have a word with Teyla. With one last check to assure himself that his patient was sleeping peacefully, Carson headed back to his quarters, leaving instructions with his night staff to watch Rodney closely and alert him immediately of any changes. He had a date with a good book and a soft bed.

He should have known better. It was 2:15 AM Atlantis time when he got the call from the infirmary that Rodney had taken a turn for the worse.


	15. Chapter 15

* * *

John was furious when he arrived at the infirmary at 0830 the next morning to find Dr. Weir and Dr. Beckett conferring in the hallway. Carson saw him coming and immediately moved to intercept him, which only made Sheppard angrier.

"Colonel, you can't go in there," said Carson, his hands raised in front of him either as a signal for John to back off or as a means of fending off the blows, should John decide to make things physical.

"Why the hell didn't you call me?" John demanded.

"Please, Colonel, keep your voice down—I've only just managed to get him to sleep. He's had a very rough time of it, I'm afraid."

"I thought you said he was going to be fine—you said the withdrawal would be manageable. _That_--" John stabbed a finger in the direction of the pale figure lying on the infirmary bed, "—does _not_ look 'fine' to me."

"Colonel Sheppard," Dr. Weir interceded, gently but firmly. "I asked Dr. Beckett not to call you." When Sheppard drew a bead on her with flinty, unforgiving eyes, she hastily added, "It was for your own good. I know you haven't been sleeping lately, and Atlantis needs its military leader well-rested. Besides, there was no point in calling you when there was nothing you could have done to help Rodney."

"Yeah…that song's starting to get a little old," John muttered under his breath, quietly enough that Elizabeth only raised an eyebrow at him inquisitively before turning to address Carson.

"What happened last night, Carson?" she asked, crossing her arms and getting right down to business.

Carson cast a concerned glance Sheppard's way, testing the waters to see what kind of reaction he could expect. John kept his features carefully neutral, still upset enough to warrant keeping the doctor on his toes. "As I was telling the colonel last night, the Wraith enzyme is breaking down in Rodney's system, causing withdrawal symptoms. I thought the process would take days… You have to understand, we're dealing with alien-human hybrid physiology—it's not something we've had much experience with." His worried frown begged forgiveness, and since he wasn't getting it from Sheppard, he swivelled his fraught blue gaze over to Elizabeth. Weir, big softy that she was, gave him a reassuring nod and sage smile, encouraging Beckett to continue.

"I'm still not certain why the enzyme was released all at once, but for Rodney the effect was like receiving a massive dose, followed by an equally massive withdrawal. Thankfully Rodney is too stubborn to give up…and being in his twenties again certainly helped alleviate the stress on his heart."

"But it's over now, right?" asked Sheppard.

"Aye—he's over the worst of it and he's sleeping it off with the help of a sedative, but I daresay he'll be feeling pretty miserable for a while yet."

Elizabeth peered over at Rodney, who, despite being drugged into unconsciousness, was still twitching from the effects of going cold turkey. "There's one thing I don't understand," she said. "If Rodney's restored youth was the result of the Wraith feeding, shouldn't he be…older, now that the enzyme has worn off?"

Carson shifted feet as if he'd been dreading that very question. "Ah—that," he said sheepishly. "I assumed his rejuvenation was due to the botched Wraith feeding—and that's still the best explanation I've been able to come up with—but as yet, we don't know enough about the Wraith to fully understand what they are capable of. To be honest, until this happened, I had no idea it was possible for the aging process to be reversed. Only time will tell what the effects on Rodney will be, I'm sorry to say."

An increase in the movement coming from Rodney's bed made John instantly forget to be angry with Weir and Beckett as he shoved past them to reach the infirmary's sole inhabitant.

"Hey, buddy," John said softly as fever-glazed eyes cracked open and attempted to focus on him.

"Wha happen?" The words came sluggishly from Rodney's slack mouth. "Dying?"

"What? Of course you're not dying!" John answered firmly. "What kind of talk is that?"

"Don' wanna die," Rodney mumbled weakly as his puffy, red eyelids slid shut again.

"That's good to hear, Rodney," John muttered sotto voce as Carson and Elizabeth approached. It was only then that John realized he was holding Rodney's hand, and he let it drop discretely before the others could see.

"Bloody stubborn…" Beckett muttered to himself as he adjusted the drip on Rodney's IV. "I gave him enough sedative to keep him out for hours, but the daft man keeps fighting it."

John hid his smile—even under heavy sedation, Rodney couldn't keep quiet for long, and John wouldn't have it any other way.

* * *

Rodney was achy, weak and grouchy when he finally graced Atlantis with his presence the following morning. Beckett promptly stuck him with a needle and drew several vials' worth of blood. He was soon declared enzyme free, given a band-aid to put on the needle mark (which hadn't instantly healed over), and was summarily tossed out of the infirmary to fend for himself.

Even though he was still officially on sick-leave, Rodney headed straight to his quarters to change into his borrowed science uniform. He'd overheard Weir asking Beckett to attend the meeting she'd scheduled with Hermiod as soon as the Daedalus had docked. Which gave Rodney…one hour and thirteen minutes, by his watch. There was no way he was going to miss the meeting, despite the fact that they'd neglected to request his presence. That little grey alien had _a lot_ of explaining to do!

John caught up with him in the commissary just as he was pushing away from the table, leaving his cereal half-finished and only a few bites taken from his muffin.

"Not hungry?" John asked, and Rodney was sure he hadn't imagined the concern beneath the mock-shocked tone of voice.

"Hmm," Rodney agreed. "I'm too tired to eat. Oh God—you don't think the enzyme has permanently messed up my metabolism, do you? And wipe the smirk off your face—this is serious! Hypoglycaemic, remember?"

"Relax, Rodney. You've only just come out of the Pegasus Galaxy's version of rehab—that would be enough to ruin anyone's appetite. Give it some time and you'll be wolfing down doughnuts just like the good ole days, you'll see." John gave Rodney's shoulder a friendly pat, leaving his hand resting there lightly. "You coming to the meeting?"

Rodney nodded vacantly, his mind lingering on the hand that was still on his shoulder. It was that whole touching thing again, Rodney noticed, trying not to read too much into it. Maybe it had always been like this between them and he'd never paid attention before. Maybe it was his recent brush with death that was making him hyper-aware of a closeness that had always been there…but he didn't think so. This obsessive touching thing was a new development, he was sure of it.

Rodney got to his feet, disappointed but not surprised when the colonel's hand dropped from his shoulder at last. They walked together in companionable silence through the mess hall and down the corridors leading to the briefing room. But Rodney's brain couldn't switch tracks and his curiosity finally got the better of him, the words popping out of his mouth right in the middle of one of the busiest thoroughfares in Atlantis. "Is there some reason why you keep touching me, Colonel?"

"Rodney!" John hissed, yanking him along by the arm until they were safely alone in the briefing room. The colonels' grip was strong enough to leave bruises on McKay's pale, sensitive skin, and the dark scowl on his commander's face made him instinctively shrink away.

"Okay," John steamed. "You wanna run that by me again—this time _without_ half of Atlantis' military personnel watching?"

Oh. Right. Rodney realised belatedly how his question must have sounded to anyone who didn't share his peculiar penchant for non sequiturs. "I didn't mean it that way," he began hastily. "At least, not entirely," he amended with an infinitesimal flinch.

Sheppard crossed his arms stiffly and faced him down in much the same way a toreador might confront a whole lot of bull. "McKay…" he warned.

Rodney stuck out his chin and twisted his arm out of Sheppard's grasp. "Please—don't tell me you haven't noticed the way you and everyone else around here have been treating me. Those that don't act like I'm a plague victim seem to have developed the sudden urge to grope me. And it's not just you, Sheppard—Elizabeth, Carson, Teyla…hell, even Ronon can't seem to keep his paws off. So what gives? Am I suddenly less repulsive now that I'm younger? Are appearances really so important to you people? Because I promise you, I am the same bad-tempered, ill-mannered, arrogant genius I used to be."

"Really? I hadn't noticed," John replied dryly. But before he could lay into Rodney for his ridiculous misperceptions, Dr. Weir arrived in the briefing room. She immediately seemed to sense the tension between them and her step faltered.

"John, Rodney? Is there a problem here?" she asked, and brushed a hand across Rodney's forearm as she passed him.

Rodney gave John a smug 'what did I tell you' look and clammed up, leaving the explanations up to him. And honestly, did Sheppard really believe his threatening glare had any effect on him anymore?

"It's nothing," John deflected easily, taking his usual seat at the large, u-shaped table.

"Good," Weir replied with one eyebrow quirked at Rodney. "Actually, I wasn't expecting you to attend the meeting, Rodney. Dr. Beckett informed me that he gave you strict orders to take it easy for a few days."

Rodney carefully avoided making eye contact with either of them. "I am taking it easy," he answered. "I'm sitting in on a meeting, not running the Marine training course…which I did, incidentally," he added, chancing a glance at Weir.

Elizabeth's wry smile told him he was off the hook for now, and as he took his seat next to Sheppard, Dr. Beckett wandered in bearing a steaming mug of coffee. He looked like death warmed over, and Rodney was about to point out that the good doctor should take his own advice and take it easy for a while, when the air suddenly hummed and glowed with the Daedalus' transport beam. Colonel Caldwell and an annoyed and uncomfortable-looking Hermiod were unceremoniously deposited in the centre of the room.

Rodney was pretty sure it was the first time the Asgard ambassador had set his tiny little feet on Atlantis, and he looked even more out of place here than he did on the Daedalus with all its Asgard technology. Somehow it gave Rodney a deep sense of satisfaction to see the haughty little alien looking so ut of sorts in his new surroundings. He was so focused on Hermiod that he completely failed to catch the slack-jawed expression of shock displayed by Colonel Caldwell upon seeing him—something he would have thoroughly enjoyed seeing.

"Gentlemen, if we could get started, please," said Weir, and without preamble, she went on to explain to Hermiod and Caldwell the events leading up to McKay's transformation.

Rodney had spent enough time with Hermiod in the past to become fairly proficient in reading the alien's subtle facial expressions, and there was a distinct eye-squint of distaste when Elizabeth mentioned the name Byleist. Rodney had a hunch.

"You knew him, didn't you?" he asked Hermiod, crossing his arms and glowering at the Asgard for all he was worth.

The eye-squint became even more pronounced when Hermiod answered him. "Byleist was Loki's brother," he stated, as if that explained everything. When he received only blank stares from the rest of the room's inhabitants, Hermiod obligingly spelled it out for them. "Like Loki, Byleist was…less than scrupulous in his scientific endeavours. The brothers were working together to create a cross-species clone that would nullify the degenerative effects of our cloning process. However, their failures early on in the experimentation stage made it clear that our species' genetic code had become too corrupted to withstand the cross-species blending. Invariably, the stronger genes of the second species became dominant in the pairing, creating clones that were only marginally Asgard in make-up. Needless to say, their preliminary trials were deemed misguided and dangerously flawed by the Asgard scientific community, and when they were warned to abandon their work, they chose instead to flee to the Pegasus Galaxy. Many years later, Loki returned to our home world alone. According to his accounts, Byleist was killed by the by-products of their experiments—the creatures you now know as the Wraith."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Rodney said, snapping his fingers at Hermiod. "Clones? You're saying the Wraith are botched Asgard _clones_? But-but-but that makes no _sense_," he sputtered, fearing where this line of thought was going. "From everything I've read about Asgard cloning, any clone created using Byleist or Loki as a template would have had an exact copy of their consciousness—at least, that's what happened when Loki cloned General O'Neill. So why would their clones suddenly turn on them?"

Hermiod tilted his over-sized head at Rodney, as if to acknowledge that his question was valid. "You are quite correct, Dr. McKay. Under normal circumstances, a clone receives an exact duplicate of the original consciousness. However, we are uncertain of the methods used by Byleist and Loki here in the Pegasus Galaxy. It is possible they removed the clones from the device before the final stage, in which the consciousness is transferred. Or it is possible that the alien species they chose to integrate into their clones was too strong, overriding the implanted consciousness to satisfy the baser requirements of their new bodies."

Dr. Beckett leaned forward, his fingers clasped tightly around his now-empty coffee mug. "Hold on a minute," he said, his eyes darting between Hermiod and Rodney. "What you're telling us is that Rodney—the Rodney sitting at this table—is…"

"A clone," Rodney supplied numbly. He turned wide eyes on the friends gathered at the table with him and saw that they shared his shock, if not his dismay. Just like that, his world was upended, and Rodney was left with nothing to cling on to.


	16. Chapter 16

* * *

"I'm a clone!" Rodney repeated, and this time John could almost feel the panic radiating off him.

"Yes, you are," Hermiod stated bluntly, with no regard for the meltdown taking place across the table from him.

"Incredible! Well, that explains why you're in your twenties at least—it would make sense to create clones that were at their peak, physically," Beckett burst out. John glared daggers at him and the doctor blushed hotly. "I'm sorry, Rodney. I realise this must be terribly difficult for you…but you must admit, it _is_ fascinating."

"Fascinating?" Rodney squeaked. "I find out I'm not even really _me_ and you think it's _fascinating_?"

And, oh yeah, cue the panic-induced rage, thought John. Seeing Rodney's face turn several shades of red, he decided to step in before Carson's face ended up at the end of Rodney's fist. "You _are_ you, Rodney," John said, his hand held out in a placating gesture. "Just because your body is a new model doesn't mean that you're not the real Rodney McKay. Right, Hermiod?" Sheppard lifted his brows at the Asgard in the hopes of gaining a confirmation.

"Colonel Sheppard is correct," said Hermiod obligingly, steepling his delicate gray fingers in front of him. "You are indeed a clone; however, the consciousness you harbour is identical in every respect to the original."

"So…what exactly happened with the original Rodney McKay?" asked Dr. Weir, voicing the question that everyone had been dancing around.

All eyes rounded on Rodney expectantly, and he squirmed in his seat under their combined glares. "Don't look at me," he snapped defensively. "I came out of that machine alone—or did you think I simply failed to notice another me in the room?"

"Hmm…" Hermiod grumbled.

"'Hmm'? What, 'hmm'?" Rodney demanded, his right eye twitching ever so slightly. Sheppard could sympathise—the little naked alien made him twitchy, too.

"The Asgard learned long ago that it is…problematic for a consciousness to exist in two bodies simultaneously. As you can imagine, there were moral, legal and psychological issues involved in persuading the previous host to remove themselves from the equation and allow the new hosts to take over their lives. To avoid such difficulties, it was decided that all Asgard cloning devices be equipped with an eradication beam that would instantly and humanely dispose of the original body once a new clone was successfully created and imbued with a consciousness. However, the eradication beam was only just being integrated into the devices at the time Loki and Byleist escaped to the Pegasus Galaxy. There is no way of knowing for certain if their device had this beam."

"So you're saying the device may have destroyed Rodney's original body?" asked Dr. Beckett.

Rodney felt the blood drain from his face. "It was destroyed—that's the only plausible explanation! I'm dead! I mean, not _me_, but _me_!" Rodney babbled hysterically.

Sheppard dropped a comforting hand on Rodney's arm, and this time Rodney didn't seem to mind. John figured that it was probably the only thing anchoring him to sanity at the moment. "Now don't jump to conclusions," he said. "From the sounds of it, there's a good chance their machine didn't have this… 'eradication' beam."

"Oh, really?" Rodney snapped back. "Then where's the other me? Hmm? If that device didn't zap me into oblivion then where did I go?" No one answered. No one dared answer, considering what the alternative might be. "I'm a dead man—a walking, talking, dead man."

"Is your new body not an improvement over the old one?" asked Hermiod in his aggravatingly prim voice. "Are you not younger and healthier than you were?"

"Yeah—and part _Wraith_!" Rodney pointed out vehemently. "And Beckett has been completely useless in predicting what being part-Wraith might mean for me."

"Hey…" Carson protested weakly.

"I'm sorry, did I hurt your feelings?" Rodney sniped unapologetically. "You know I'm right—we have absolutely no idea what kinds of surprises I could be in for. Like, what will happen to me if a Wraith ever tries to feed on me again? Have you thought about that? Will I get my wacky, hybrid superpowers back? Or will I be un-life-sucked until I'm a toddler again? It was bad enough having to go through puberty once—I do _not_ want to suffer through it a second time, thank-you very much!

"You won't be turned into a toddler," Sheppard argued reasonable.

"Oh? And on what do you base that assumption? On your years of study on the subject?" Rodney's hit and run verbal assault left John reeling, and all he could do was stare back at him wordlessly.

"Perhaps," Hermiod broke in softly, "if you would rather return to your old body," and there was definitely an emphasis on the word 'old', "we could re-create it using the data stored in the device's buffer."

Rodney blinked mutely at the Asgard for a moment. "You—you could really do that?" he asked in disbelief. The grin that spread across his face at the thought of returning to his old self again lit up the room.

"Indeed," Hermiod replied succinctly.

* * *

Sheppard watched an anxious young McKay pace aggressively back and forth in his quarters on the Daedalus. The man was like a live wire, thrumming with a dangerous energy and looking for an outlet. John figured it was his duty to keep him grounded so no one else got hurt.

"Would you relax already? You're making me dizzy," John said, casually flipping through a golf magazine as he lay propped against the wall on the room's single cot. He could only hope that he was projecting an air of calm disinterest when, in truth, he was hyper-aware of Rodney at the moment. Actually, he'd been highly attuned to the man ever since their aborted conversation in the briefing room a few days earlier.

He'd been thinking about what McKay had said; that people—that _he _was touching him more now. John was pretty sure he himself wasn't treating Rodney any differently than he used to, but since that conversation, he had definitely noticed a marked change in the way others were treating him.

In part, Rodney had been right—it was because he was younger. But it wasn't so much that people were more attracted to the new McKay packaging, although John had to admit the new packaging was worthy of attention. What really seemed to make Rodney irresistible now was how innocent and vulnerable he appeared. Rodney had no idea how much his guileless, wide-eyed expression brought out the protective nature in the people around him. Sometimes it was easy to forget that it was _McKay_ in there. And the fact that his new haircut made his big blue eyes stand out even more in his youthful face didn't help matters any. Everyone from Radek to Ronon had taken on the role of older sibling, and John could understand how frustrating that must be to a man with a double doctorate and a history of defeating the Wraith and Replicators against impossible odds.

John had tried to act normally around him, had dialled back the friendly shoulder pats and made an effort to keep his distance, but Rodney was making it hard. Ever since the meeting with Hermiod, Rodney had become his shadow, tailing him around Atlantis and now here on the Daedalus en route to the waterfall planet. What with their adjoining quarters, they were practically living out of each other's pockets.

Not that John minded so much. Despite a few grating personality traits—or possibly, because of them—John enjoyed spending time with Rodney. And after the volcano incident, it was sort of comforting to have him around all the time. Still, it made it harder for him to keep a respectful distance—especially when he was acting so needy, like he was now.

"What if he's still alive?" Rodney asked for the umpteenth time. John sighed and put down his magazine. "What if the Wraith imprisoned him, or he somehow managed to escape from the mountain? What if he's out there somewhere and he wants his life back? He's the original me—he has dibs on my life! I suppose you'd probably get rid of me…you'd have to. You'd just dump me on some backwater planet where my vast intelligence will go entirely to waste. Or worse—you'd have to kill me because I know too much. Oh my God, you're going to kill me, aren't you?"

"Nobody's going to kill you McKay," John drawled from the bed. And then he muttered, "Unless you keep up with the whining."

Rodney stopped in front of him, his arms folded tightly across his chest as he scowled down at him. "I'm not whining, I'm voicing legitimate concerns about my future welfare."

"You're being paranoid," John countered.

"You would be, too, if you were just a cheap knock-off of the original."

John frowned up at Rodney, genuinely concerned this time. "Do you really see yourself as a cheap knock-off?" he asked.

"No, of course not," Rodney replied with a dismissive eye-roll. "I'm me, I know that. But if it turns out there are _two_ of me, which one of us do you think will get the boot?"

John opened his mouth to accuse Rodney of being an idiot when Caldwell's voice came over the ship's intercom asking them to come to the bridge. "Guess we're about to find out one way or the other," John said flippantly, instantly regretting it when he saw the deep worry etched into Rodney's brow.

Teyla and Ronon were already on the bridge when they arrived, as if they'd sprinted from wherever they'd been just so they could beat them there. The smug smile on Ronon's face suggested that wasn't too far from the truth. Teyla, for her part, was watching Rodney with familial concern, and before John could stall her, she was at the scientist's side, gently stroking his back. Luckily Rodney was too on edge to even notice the sisterly attention.

Caldwell regarded John with his usual sour expression, but whether it was out of general dislike for him or if it had to do with their current mission, he couldn't tell. The colonel wasted no time on pleasantries, getting right down to business. "We arrived in orbit a few minutes ago and ran a routine sensor sweep. I thought you might want to take a look at this."

Rodney squeezed his way between them and practically hurled the technician out of the seat in front of the monitor. It took all of three seconds before Rodney's eyes bugged out of his head and his jaw fell open.

"What?" asked Ronon, peering over everyone's shoulders to get in on the action.

"It's the signal from my subcutaneous transmitter," Rodney answered in a shocked monotone, pointing to the blinking red dot on the screen. "I'm still down there."

John tore his gaze away from Rodney to size up Caldwell's reaction. The man's mouth was a tight, thin line, and his eyes were plainly telegraphing to John that he was leaving the decision up to him. John glared back at the older man with a 'thanks for nothing' look and he gave the order. "Lock on and beam him directly onto the bridge."

With a confirming nod from Caldwell, the displaced technician elbowed his way back to his console and began typing in the necessary instructions. A moment later the front of the bridge was enveloped in a bright, sparkling light and everyone turned to get a better view.

The blood-curdling shriek that rent the air when the light faded was only to be expected, and this was one time when John felt Rodney was totally justified in fainting dead away. He'd have probably done the same if he'd suddenly found himself face to face with his own Wraith-devoured corpse.


	17. Chapter 17

* * *

The antiseptic smell of the infirmary was becoming a woefully familiar part of waking up, Rodney thought, as consciousness slowly descended upon him. And then he wondered what had happened to land him in the infirmary this time. He struggled to clear his mind of cobwebs, to remember…he was on the Daedalus, not Atlantis, and they'd been on their way to the waterfall planet to recover the data stored in the Asgard device's buffer, when…

An image flashed through Rodney's brain—his own face, his own body, but shrunken and desiccated and lying on the floor of the bridge. Hollow eye sockets staring blankly back at him like a promise of his own destiny. It was such a horrific image that Rodney choked on a gasp as he scrambled awake, pulling in stuttering gulps of air in an effort to reaffirm his own existence.

Sitting bolt upright on the narrow medical cot, Rodney wheezed and panted until he levelled out at a point just shy of hyperventilation. When he calmed down a little more, he finally realised that he wasn't alone. Standing next to him and looking as disturbed as Rodney felt, was Colonel Sheppard.

"Rodney, are you okay?" asked Sheppard, to which Rodney merely huffed out a pained laugh of incredulity. "Okay, stupid question," John admitted.

"I was killed by the Wraith," Rodney uttered at last, raising his hands to his face as if to make sure he was really there.

"But on the bright side, at least you won't be fighting over who gets to keep the orthopaedic mattress," John offered in a lame attempt at levity.

Rodney barely registered it; he was lost in his own thoughts. "Do you realise that if the Asgard cloning device hadn't worked, that would've been it? No more Rodney McKay," he said, mouth hanging open in dread awe at the thought of it. Then the true horror of what his other self must have endured washed over him and his eyes grew huge as he retched.

A stainless steel kidney dish appeared under his chin in the nick of time, saving his bed sheets from the brunt of the mess. When the heaving subsided, Rodney found himself being gently eased back onto his pillow. He watched humbly as Sheppard stripped the soiled sheet off his bed and set it aside on a chair along with the kidney dish. Sheppard disappeared from view for a minute, but then he returned bearing a cold, damp cloth and a plastic cup of ice water, which he handed to Rodney.

"Thanks," Rodney rasped, his voice gravelly and raw. He took a sip of the water, feeling it soothe a cool stripe down his throat. It felt amazing, but not as good as the cool cloth Sheppard had pressed to the back of his neck.

"You're welcome," Sheppard replied graciously, keeping the cloth in place as Rodney curled up on his side to ease his sore stomach muscles.

"Good, you're awake," Caldwell said as he strode into the room with Dr. Beckett trailing behind him looking about ready to blow a gasket.

"Just what part of 'he needs to rest' d'you not understand?" the doctor bellowed out in his heaviest brogue.

Caldwell brushed him off and came to stand next to Sheppard, who was visibly bristling at the unwanted intrusion. "Dr. McKay, we're picking up two Wraith Cruisers on long range sensors. We've got an hour and a half, tops, before they arrive, so if you want to retrieve that information from the planet, we need to move now."

"McKay's in no condition to go running around an active volcano just yet," Sheppard argued through gritted teeth. "Look at him!"

"I'm fine," Rodney croaked ineffectually. When everyone in the room looked at him askance, he amended, "Okay, I'm not fine now, but I will be." It was a testament to how much Rodney wanted his old body back that he was willing to get up onto wobbly legs in order to prove his point.

Sheppard shot out an arm to steady Rodney as he swayed alarmingly on his feet, saving him from doing a face-plant onto the infirmary floor. "Like I said, he's in no shape to go on a mission," said John, glaring at Caldwell.

Caldwell rubbed the bridge of his nose, but from the pinched look on his face, the headache had already hit full force. "Fine. We'll scrap the mission for now and return for the device the next time the Daedalus makes a run to the Pegasus Galaxy."

"What? No!" Rodney cried, dislodging himself forcefully from Sheppard's solicitous hold. "We're here, we have plenty of time until the Wraith arrive, and, and…and I want my body back!" He knew that his stormy glare and defiantly jutting chin made him look like a petulant child and he tried not to take offense when John had to turn away to hide his smirk.

"If you're sure…" Caldwell hedged with a glimmer of smugness in his expression—the sneaky bastard had won this battle, and they all knew it.

"I'm sure," Rodney answered firmly. "Now, if you don't mind, I need to get my equipment together."

Rodney marched his way past Sheppard and Beckett wearing an unflinching mask of determination on his face. He heard John sigh in resignation as he fell into step behind him, making him all the more resolved to prove that he was up to the task at hand.

* * *

Sheppard, McKay and Hermiod were clustered together on the bridge waiting to be beamed down to the Asgard science lab in the mountain. Teyla and Ronon, along with a team of heavily armed Marines were likewise standing by to be beamed down to the planet. Their team would be sent down to Kalell's town square to warn the Pawnim people of the Wraith threat, because as much as they might want revenge for what they'd done to Rodney, there were innocent people down there that didn't deserve such a cruel fate. It was up to Teyla's diplomatic skills to convince them to evacuate through the stargate immediately. Ronon and the Marines were there to give them an extra nudge of encouragement if it should prove necessary.

"I want both teams on an open frequency at all times. I'm giving you one hour to get the job done and get out of there. Understood?" There were professional nods all around and Caldwell gave the order to beam them out.

Rodney's first thought upon materializing in the underground Asgard lab was that he'd made a terrible mistake in going back there. The smell of decay was so potent it was like a physical assault on his senses, and he was wracked by a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature of the lab. Instinctively, Rodney inched closer to Sheppard—close enough to feel the reassuring heat of the other man's arm through the material of his jacket.

Wandering through the wreckage that had once been the cloning device's console, Hermiod muttered something in his own language, and Rodney didn't need to be a linguistic savant like Dr. Jackson to recognise swearing when he heard it.

"What have you done?" asked the little alien at last, giving Rodney an evil eye-squint.

Rodney slid a bit further into Sheppard's personal space, using him as a shield against Hermiod's wrath. "I'm sure I mentioned in the briefing that I destroyed the console."

Even Sheppard was giving him an aggrieved look now. "Actually, I think your exact words were 'I disabled the device'. I think this classifies as more than just disabling, Rodney—this looks more like a Freddy-Krueger-scale massacre!"

Rodney waffled for a moment, trying to think of an acceptable excuse. "Yes…well…I might have used a little more force than was strictly necessary, but in case you've forgotten, I was under considerable stress at the time."

Hermiod grumbled some more in his incomprehensible language and gingerly shifted some debris off the shattered remnants of the control panel with one long, delicate finger.

Rodney watched the disgruntled Asgard with growing unease. "We can still retrieve the data from the buffer, right?" he asked anxiously.

Hermiod's only answer was a foreboding "Mmm".

* * *

Ronon had thought he was ready for anything, but the chaos that greeted them upon arriving in Kalell's town square was unexpected. Women and children were kneeling at the base of the central fountain, wailing and begging for Byleist's forgiveness as Pawnim warriors strung up and brutalised anyone wearing the garb of the holy men. Ing Tal's lifeless body dripped blood onto the cobbled pavement where it dangled from a thick, gory spike in the centre of the square.

Ronon, Teyla and the Marines immediately took up a defensive stance, staying in a tight circle with their backs together and their weapons raised, ready for a skirmish. But their arrived went entirely unnoticed in all the confusion.

Next to him, Teyla was looking around in the vain hope that there was someone in the crowd with enough sense left to reason with. But between the distraught cries of Byleist's worshippers and the screams of the town's overthrown clergy, it was beginning to look like a hopeless cause.

And then a sharp-eyed young woman spotted them and made her way towards them through the melee. Ronon recognised her from the dinner they'd shared with the Pawnim on their first visit there, although at the time he'd found her unremarkable. Now, however, she stood out as the only one of the planet's inhabitants to remain unfazed by the surrounding turmoil—she was even more composed than those who were charged with maintaining order, and that was enough to set off the alarms for Ronon.

She walked directly up to Teyla and gave her a stiff nod. "I am Lera, of the Genii," she said in a crisp, business-like manner. "I've been working undercover amongst the Pawnim for the last six years."

"The Genii?" Teyla asked, unable to disguise her distaste. "What interest could the Genii possibly have in the Pawnim?"

Lera regarded her disdainfully, as if the answer to that question should have been obvious, and guided the small group to a shadowed alcove between buildings where they could talk undisturbed. "We are after the same thing as your Dr. McKay. Many years ago, we learned from one of our agents who'd infiltrated a sect of Wraith worshippers that the Wraith had stumbled across a piece of alien technology that would allow them to feed off the same victim many times over. I was sent here to join the community and report back everything I could learn about the technology. I believed that the device, if used properly, could be used as a defence against the Wraith, but it was in need of repairs, which is why I had Dr. McKay sent down to Byleist's hidden laboratory."

"Wait…_you_ were the one who had McKay thrown into the volcano?" Ronon asked, his right hand automatically gripping the handle of his gun. If it wasn't for the fact that they needed her help, he would have shot her on the spot.

"The Wraith posing as Byleist was growing hungry and demanding a new sacrifice be made. If Dr. McKay hadn't arrived when he did, I would have been next. And as much as I wanted to get my hands on that device, I knew my skills weren't up to the task of fixing it."

Ronon growled deep in his throat and took a menacing step towards Lera. She took a fearful step back and turned to Teyla to intercede.

"You sent our friend to his death in that mountain," Teyla snarled at the Genii agent.

Lera smiled conspiratorially back at her. "Only, you and I both know that isn't the case. The night following the sacrifice, a young man bearing the face of Dr. McKay was seen fleeing from the scene of a murder. The dead man's six-year-old son said that his father's attacker had the strength of three warriors and healed from a deadly wound in the blinking of an eye. When Ing Tal went to consult Byleist concerning the matter, however, he was met with an uncharacteristic silence."

"So the people of the village assumed that Byleist was unhappy with them, and they panicked," Teyla concluded.

Lera nodded, "But I knew the truth—that Dr. McKay had succeeded in fixing the device and had managed to kill the Wraith."

Teyla frowned deeply, seemingly torn between the need to save innocent people from the oncoming Wraith attack and wishing to see the Genii woman punished for her part in her friend's suffering. "It appears that the Pawnim are not the only ones to have noticed Byleist's absence," she said, her gaze fiery. "There are two Wraith Cruisers on the way here, most likely sent to discover what has happened to him. You must warn these people to evacuate before it is too late."

Lera crossed her arms and stood fast against the Athosian leader, her own brand of fire emanating from her eyes. "I fail to see how the Pawnim's plight is my concern."

That was the last straw as far as Ronon was concerned, and he pulled out his gun, levelling it at Lera's head. "I'm making it your concern," he growled. With Teyla and the marines reluctantly following his lead, Ronon marched the Genii agent over to the central fountain to make a speech to the people of Kalell.

* * *

Down in the Asgard science lab, Rodney was working with an increasingly frustrated Hermiod to piece together the remnants of the cloning device. Their hour was up and Sheppard was hovering, waiting for a prognosis so he could, in turn, inform Caldwell of their status.

"Well?" Sheppard prompted, leaning in far enough to intrude on Rodney's privacy bubble.

"Have you ever heard of personal boundaries?" Rodney griped. Not that he minded the intrusion all that much, but he didn't want Sheppard to see how much this place was freaking him out. He was ashamed to admit to himself that what little progress they'd made had been largely due to Hermiod's efforts and not his own. The heap of Wraith victims in the dark corner of the lab was a constant reminder of what had happened to his other self, and at the moment he was willing to call the mission a bust just to get the hell out of there.

"You haven't answered my question," John badgered, still skirting the shoals of Rodney's bubble.

"I wasn't aware that 'well?' was a question." Rodney replied tartly.

"It is when your voice goes up at the end," John retorted. "Like this—_well_?"

"It's not going smoothly, is that what you wanted to hear?" Rodney snapped at him, adding a sneer for good measure.

"No, it's not," John answered truthfully. "But whether you're ready or not, Caldwell's been breathing down my neck for an answer."

"Well you've got it," Rodney grumbled. "We need another hour at least to get this machine functioning again."

"We don't _have_ an hour," said Sheppard.

"I am well aware of that, Colonel," Rodney sniffed. "But thank-you so much for making the situation less stressful."

Sheppard's radio crackled to life and Caldwell's voice barked over the fuzzy connection. "What's the news, Colonel?"

John gave Rodney a dirty look before answering. "It's not good, Sir. We need more time."

"Funny," Caldwell commented. "Teyla just told me the same thing. Seems the locals are convinced that Byleist will return to save them if they're deemed worthy, so they're not budging. Now let me tell you the same thing I told Teyla—you've got ten minutes."

"That's not nearly enough time," Rodney complained in the background.

"It's all you've got, and we're cutting it dangerously close as it is. Caldwell out."

"You heard the man," Sheppard goaded. "You've got ten minutes, so get the lead out of your butt and get working."

"See? There's that added pressure thing again," Rodney whined. "Why do you always do that?"

"Because you love it," John answered him, giving his shoulder a quick squeeze. And despite everything, Rodney couldn't help but smile a little, because it was kind of true.


	18. Chapter 18

* * *

Seated on the bridge of the Daedalus, Colonel Caldwell stared hard through the forward view port as if the intensity of his concentration might make the approaching Wraith Cruisers visible to the naked eye. He knew that any second now the Cruisers could drop out of hyperspace and engage them in battle, and he still had two teams stubbornly delaying beam-up on the planet.

His patience wearing thin, he contacted Sheppard yet again. "Colonel, what's your status?"

Not surprisingly, it was Dr. McKay who answered in clipped tones. "We need, like, two minutes—three max. We're almost there."

"Two minutes," Caldwell agreed against his better judgement. He figured he could beam up the other team now and leave Sheppard's team on the planet until the last possible moment if necessary—at least they were safe from Wraith attack within the mountain.

Time to check in on the second team. "Teyla, prepare your team to beam out," he ordered.

Again, Caldwell was not surprised at Teyla's response. "Colonel, there are a number of villagers making their way to the Stargate. Ronon and I would like permission to accompany them so we can provide further protection from the Wraith if it is needed."

"Negative," Caldwell answered firmly—so firmly his jaw was aching from clenching it so tightly. "Prepare to beam out now. Caldwell out."

"Sir!" Lieutenant Hayes called out from the weapons console, pointing towards the view port.

Caldwell had already ordered the shields down to beam up Teyla's team when the two Wraith Cruisers dropped out of hyperspace, weapons firing. They took three shots in quick succession before Caldwell could even order the transport of their ground team. The light had barely faded from the transporter beam when the Daedalus shook from a heavy blast at close range.

"Shields up!" Caldwell shouted over the sound of fire extinguishers and running feet. "Open fire." He spared a moment to give Teyla and Ronon a tight-lipped glower before ordering the newly arrived marines to man their posts. "Damages?" Caldwell tossed out to the helmsman.

"We've got hull damage on level six, and our transporters and sensors are down," he answered briskly.

Their forward shield lit up with incoming fire and Hayes took the initiative and returned fire, catching the attacking Cruiser with a lucky shot that caused a cascade of secondary explosions aboard the enemy vessel. The culminating fireworks were spectacular, but with a second Cruiser out there taking shots at them, there was no time for celebrations.

With the sensors out of commission, their only point of reference was the forward view port, and the surviving Wraith ship was refusing to cooperate and stay within their line of sight. Hayes was doing his best to track the ship based of the trajectory of their fire, but he was meeting with very little success.

"Shields at seventy percent," the helmsman reported.

"Turn a slow three-sixty—let's see if we can get a visual on the target." Caldwell grasped the arms of his chair and leaned forward, ready to give the order to open fire the instant the Cruiser came into view.

He didn't have to wait long before the flank of the remaining Wraith ship edged the periphery of their view port. "Fire at will," Caldwell commanded, and even before the words were fully out of his mouth, Hayes had taken aim and launched a volley of rail gun fire at the Cruiser.

With their target now in sight, the balance of power had tipped in their favour once again, and after a quick but heated exchange of weapons fire, the Wraith vessel was disabled, venting atmosphere at a rate that didn't bode well for its passengers. Caldwell couldn't bring himself to feel sympathy for them.

* * *

"Okay. So it looks like we've got a bit of a walk ahead of us," Sheppard announced after his brief chat with Colonel Caldwell.

"Oh? How so?" asked Rodney, popping up from the innards of the machine like a groundhog coming out of its hole.

"The Wraith showed up and did a number on the Daedalus' transporters. We've been ordered to make our way back to the stargate and rendezvous with the rest of our team back on Atlantis," John explained.

"But…the Wraith?" asked Rodney.

"Don't worry; Caldwell took out both Cruisers. And hey—now you can take as much time as you need to finish your work," John said, smiling as though he was offering McKay the best present ever.

Rodney grimaced. "Yes…about that," he said, casting a glance at Hermiod's pale backside where it stuck out from the guts of the machinery.

"I thought you said you could get it working again," John said in a warning voice, because so help him, if they'd put the Daedalus at risk for no reason…

"Getting it to work is not the problem—at least, it isn't the biggest one any more," Rodney replied, a hard edge of bitterness colouring his words. "Hermiod noticed that the buffer is only large enough to store the genetic information from once source at a time."

"So the data in the buffer?"

"Could belong to the Wraith, yes," Rodney confirmed grimly. "Unfortunately I…inadvertently…damaged the hardware that would have allowed us to access the data, which means we won't know if it's me or the Wraith in there until we power it up and see what comes out the other end."

"How soon will that be?" John asked.

"Soon," Rodney answered.

John dusted off his 'give me a proper answer or suffer the consequences' glare and drawled, "Rodney."

"Look—I don't know, okay? It could be five minutes or it could be five hours. Trust me, no one wants to get out of here more than I do—we're working as fast as we can."

From the bowls of the device they heard Hermiod's protesting "We?"

"I'm doing my fair share of the work," Rodney said defensively, but then squeezed back into the section of the machine he'd been working on without any further complaints.

It was another fifty-five minutes by John's watch when a sweaty, panting Rodney stumbled out of the machine again, followed by Hermiod, who looked as pristine and daisy-fresh as when they'd started.

"Okay," Rodney wheezed, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. "I think we've got it."

"You think?" John asked, just to tick him off.

"I'm sure," Rodney said, his eyes rolling at the insinuation that he didn't know what he was doing. "We're ready when you are."

John nodded and un-holstered his sidearm, taking aim at a spot just above the bio-bed where Hermiod had said the clone would appear. It turned out that there was no need for urgency. As the machine whirred to life, a force field formed around the bio-bed and a small mass began to form inside the barrier. At the rate the mass was growing it would be at least half an hour before there was anything even remotely resembling a human…or a Wraith, as the case may be.

For nearly twenty minutes they watched in tense silence as the humanoid figure began taking shape. Not long after that, it became apparent to John that it was the Wraith's DNA, not Rodney's, that had been stored in the buffer.

Hermiod must have come to the same conclusion as John, because the little guy stepped up to Rodney and placed an uncharacteristically sympathetic hand on his arm. "I am sorry, Dr. McKay," he said, his glossy black eyes wide and earnest.

"No. No, no—just give it some more time. It's too soon to tell for sure," Rodney babbled, deep in denial.

John eyed the six-foot-four-inch, green/grey skinned creature which was growing more and more Wraith-like by the second and knew it wasn't necessary to point out the likelihood of the clone being human. They would give Rodney a few more minutes to come to grips with the fact that his last shot of getting his own body back had just gone up in smoke, and then they would make tracks back to the stargate. John wanted to make sure they reached the suspension bridge before nightfall.

When the nasal slits formed in the mottled-green skin of the clone's face, Rodney finally dropped his head in defeat and gave Sheppard a brief, silent nod.

"Sorry, Rodney," John said, giving the kill signal to Hermiod while his friend's eyes were still downcast and wouldn't see it. With a sighing whir, the machine powered down and the force field dropped on the partially-formed Wraith clone. And even though it didn't look like it was alive, John emptied a clip into it for good measure to be sure. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rodney flinch with every shot he fired. The poor guy's nerves had to be fried with everything he'd been through today, and then to have to watch his best friend riddle a clone full of holes… Sure, it was a Wraith clone, but it still must have hit pretty close to home.

"What say we get the hell outta here?" John suggested. Rodney looked at him with palpable relief and immediately led the way to the transporter.

A few minutes later they found themselves deposited in the musty cave behind the waterfall that Rodney had described. But when they emerged from the cave and came upon the narrow, treacherously slick ledge, a bare foot away from a thundering wall of water, John was struck speechless. He'd assumed Rodney had been exaggerating when he'd told them his account of his escape from the mountain, but if anything, he'd downplayed the fear-factor.

Behind him, Rodney edged away from the protection of the cave's mouth, his hair plastered to his head and a look of sheer terror on his face. "We need to go that way," he shouted over the din of the raging waterfall, pointing with his chin so he could keep both hands on the rock wall at his back.

"You actually did this on your own?" John shouted back with a mixture of pride and disbelief.

"Piece of cake!" Rodney yelled and squeezed closer to John to give Hermiod room to join them on the ledge.

"Uhhhngh!" The moan of dread, amazingly, came from the Asgard and not Rodney. The tiny alien was looking decidedly petrified, which, in turn, prompted a look of smug superiority to temporarily overcome the terror on Rodney's own face.

"What's the matter? Don't tell me you're afraid of heights," Rodney mocked gleefully, seemingly forgetting that he, himself, had loudly admitted to his own fear of heights numerous times in the past.

Hermiod blinked up at Rodney in a way that looked pissy to John. "The Asgard are unaccustomed to physical pursuits of this nature. However, if traversing this mountain is something of which _you_ are capable, I am certain I will encounter little difficulty."

"Oh, you think so, do you?" Rodney started, but before he could get a full head of steam going, John intervened.

"Put a sock in it, both of you," he ordered. "Now—the first thing we have to do is turn around and face the mountain." He waited until Rodney and Hermiod had followed his example and the three of them had their backs to the waterfall and the deadly drop to the gorge below. "Right. Good. Now, we've got a decent-sized ledge and plenty of good handholds, so all you have to do is put your hands and feet where I put mine. Just follow my lead—I've had lots of experience rock-climbing."

"Of _course_ you have," Rodney piped up irritably. "Tell me, is there anything you _don't_ know how to do?"

Without skipping a beat, John answered, "I can't dance."

"What? Really?" Rodney said in an octave intended for dogs' ears only.

"Yes, really."

"How is that even possible?" Rodney protested, as if his inability to dance was somehow a personal affront to him.

"It never came up," John replied matter-of-factly.

"Never? Oh, let me guess—you're one of those guys who think they're too macho to dance!" And _man_, was Rodney ever getting worked up over this. He was so worked up, as it happened, that it had distracted him from their perilous situation enough for them to make significant progress along the ridge without the tiniest freak-out from his friend.

"It's not that," John responded, as much to keep Rodney's attention occupied as to defend his character. "I'm just not coordinated that way. I can't dance," he admitted bluntly. It had the desired effect—Rodney dug his teeth into it like a dog with a chew toy and wouldn't let it go.

"Surely you can waltz," he insisted. "Even _I'm_ good at waltzing."

"Then that's something you can do that I can't," Sheppard said magnanimously.

"Huh." Rodney looked like he was mulling it over, so John was pleasantly surprised when he let it drop in favour of a new topic of discussion—his previous, heroic, journey along the ridge. Hermiod was conspicuously silent throughout, and John guessed that the alien used silence in much the same way Rodney used words to deal with his fear.

As Rodney had assured them, the other waterfalls were easier to navigate and the stretches in between were a laugh as far as rock-climbing went. Still, he was impressed with how well Rodney was coping. Maybe, in a day that included facing his own Wraith-eaten corpse and then working his ass off only to discover that his own body was lost to him forever, taking a merry jaunt along a gaping chasm didn't even make a blip on the radar.

Where the ledge opened up onto a flat clearing at the rope bridge, John called for a short break. Rodney flopped bonelessly down onto the grass, which John thought odd, considering the man's intense dislike of the local insects—until he noted that the swarming pests were actively avoiding the scientist. As John smacked two or three of the mosquito-like insects on the exposed patch of skin at the back of his neck, he decided to take advantage of his friend's natural bug-repelling capabilities, plopping himself down on the grass right next to him. Hermiod refused to lie down on the ground with them, but he, too, stayed close to Rodney to avoid being pestered by the bugs.

Lying next to him, Rodney sighed. It sounded more reflective than annoyed or exhausted—the standard for most of Rodney's sighs—and curiosity made John turn his head to look at him.

"Penny for them," he said.

"Hmm?" Rodney answered distractedly. "I was just thinking about what was going through my head the first time I sat here after escaping from the lab."

John waited, but it seemed this was one occasion where the usually-verbose McKay required some prodding. "And…?"

"It's nothing," Rodney replied, but then continued on to explain, nevertheless. "It's silly, really. I was alone, exhausted and starving, and I'd just faced several of my worst fears, and all I could think was that if you'd been there, you would have been proud of me." He grimaced as if he'd just bitten into a rotten fruit. "Yeah—stupid, I know."

"It's not stupid," John assured him. He sometimes forgot just how insecure Rodney could be. "And I _am_ proud of you, Rodney."

Rodney's eyes got bright all of a sudden, and his wide mouth quirked up into a painfully candid smile. "You mean that?"

"Of _course_ I mean it," said John, and the heat he felt creeping up from his collar could easily be explained away as a result of their recent physical activity or from having spent too much time in the sun. He heard something that sounded suspiciously like 'get a room' coming from Hermiod in a barely audible grumble. It was enough to deflate the moment and bring John back to the task at hand. "Okay—break's over," he said with a clap of his hands.

Rodney groaned dramatically, but got to his feet, brushing the crushed plant life off of his backside.

"That's him!" The shout came from the spot where the dirt path leading to Kalell opened onto their small clearing.

John's head whipped around to assess the possible threat even as his hand brought his P90 up to shoulder-level. His first instinct upon seeing the two Wraith was to open fire, and he would have, if it weren't for the knot of mortified women and children the Wraith were using as personal shields.

"Lera?" Rodney gasped, blinking as if he might be able to clear away the sight before him.

It was only then that John placed the women who'd shouted as the librarian responsible for handing Rodney over to be sacrificed.

"He's the man I was telling you about," she reported to the Wraith who had her in his grasp. "He fixed the alien machine—he knows where to find the secret entrance to the laboratory. Now let me go—I've done everything you've asked of me," she demanded, her dark eyes sparking with defiance.

Beside him, Rodney grabbed his arm, pulling his focus away from Lera. "Oh my God! It's him!" Rodney wheezed, clutching his other hand to his chest as if he was having a heart attack.

John's eyes followed Rodney's line of sight to where a young boy stood, head yanked uncomfortably to the side where the second Wraith had his hair in a tight grip. He was deathly pale and staring at Rodney with wide, pleading eyes. It was impossible to say whether the child was pleading for Rodney to save him or if he was begging for him to spare his life. It had to be the sword smith's son.


	19. Chapter 19

* * *

"Let me go!" Lera demanded a second time. "The others, too—you promised to let us go free!"

The Wraith holding her sneered. "I will allow you to go, but the others stay as collateral until Dr. McKay delivers the device into our hands."

With a shove, the Wraith let go of Lera. With her eyes averted, she staggered past the two other women and the three children who'd accompanied her, and then slinked past McKay, Sheppard and Hermiod to get to the rope bridge.

Rodney's eyes were glued to the boy in the second Wraith's grasp, little caring that Lera was about to walk away from this mess scot free while the rest of them were left to face down the Wraith. All he could think about was what he could do to make sure the boy got out of this safely. The boy, meanwhile, had locked his gaze with McKay's, and he could feel the odd tension that flowed between them growing. Strangely, Rodney thought there was as much awe as there was fear in the boy's eyes.

It wasn't until the other Wraith raised his stunner and two shots whizzed past him that Rodney realized the situation was going south on them while he stood there, bewildered.

There was a cry from behind him, and Rodney swung around in time to see Lera, stunned by the Wraith's gun, lose control of her limbs and topple from her precarious perch on the rope bridge and into the misty gorge below. Eyes wide and apprehensive, Rodney turned around and saw that the Wraith who'd shot Lera had taken one of the other Pawnim children hostage—a girl of about ten, whose tear-streaked face was blank with shock.

"You," barked the Wraith, pointing a long, bony finger at Sheppard.

"Me?" Sheppard replied with enviable nonchalance and mock surprise.

"Yes, you. You will take us to the device and explain to us how it works." To illustrate the consequences of disobedience, the Wraith shook the little girl roughly, sending her long black braids whipping across her ashen face and eliciting a startled, high-pitched squeal out of her.

Sheppard pinned Rodney with a look that spoke volumes. The Wraith had obviously mistaken John—as the only 'adult' in the group—for Dr. McKay, and Sheppard was asking him to play along with it. And although Rodney had no idea what his team leader had in mind, he trusted the man implicitly, so he simply responded with a minute nod of his head.

What happened next seemed to unfold in brief snapshot moments, freeze-framed in time with digital clarity: Sheppard approaching the Wraith and the hapless villagers; Sheppard's hand brushing casually over his thigh holster; the gun up and blazing; the Wraith holding the little girl crumpling to the ground with a bullet wound right between the eyes; the panic that ensued afterwards—the women and the little girls fleeing; the second Wraith drawing his weapon; Sheppard going down, his legs buckling uselessly from the blast he'd taken; the furious Wraith raising his feeding hand high, ready to latch it to the boy's frail young chest…

"No!" Rodney screamed, wondering how it was that the Wraith was getting closer without moving its legs, before he realized that he was charging the creature like an enraged bull at a red flag. If the clearing had been a few feet longer, he wouldn't have made it in time to knock the boy out of the way.

With a startled squawk, Rodney found himself wrestling with the Wraith, using all his strength to hold the attacking hand away from his chest. He was vaguely aware of Sheppard shouting behind him—he sounded like he was dying—but Rodney was too busy fending off the Wraith to help him.

Suddenly he was distracted by a small body clinging to his side. It was the sword smith's son, his huge, terrified brown eyes blinking up at him with a faith that could only truly be found in the very young and innocent. His concentration was only broken for a few seconds, but it was enough for the Wraith to get the upper hand, so to speak. Pressing his advantage of superior strength and speed, the Wraith struck, and Rodney felt the now-familiar sensation of having a Wraith's hand clawing deep into his skin.

* * *

Sheppard's hastily-devised plan had gone great until he'd taken that stunner-blast to the legs. He went down hard, and like a new-born calf, he found his legs too wobbly and disobedient to support his weight when he tried to stand up again. With his plan only half-accomplished, he quickly took stock of the situation.

As he'd hoped, the two women and the little girls had taken advantage of the confusion and made their escape into the cover of the tree line. That only left the little boy—the sword smith's boy—in the hands of the surviving Wraith.

John saw the Wraith's arm pull back, ready to plunge back down onto the exposed chest of the boy. And then, out of the blue, he heard a banshee-like shriek that raised the hair on the back of his neck, and to his utter amazement, he saw a livid, red-faced McKay running at the Wraith like the Devil was nipping at his heels.

It took a moment for John to collect his wits enough to draw his P90 and take aim at the struggling pair. But with Rodney's back turned to him, he couldn't get a bead on the Wraith. He yelled at McKay to turn the Wraith around so he could get off a shot, but Rodney was too caught up in the heat of battle to hear him.

When the little boy latched himself to Rodney's leg, John knew the fight was lost. The Wraith was on Rodney in a heartbeat, his long, white dreads flying as he tossed his head back in victory. John's mouth went bone-dry as he was once again forced to watch helplessly as his friend faced certain death. He couldn't even find words of support or comfort to call out to him in his moment of need—the bleak thought of having to give another eulogy for the man who'd become his best friend against all odds, left him feeling hollowed out, and all he could do was lie there and watch from the sidelines.

And then a miracle happened. Only, it wasn't a miracle, because according to Rodney, it had happened before in the Asgard lab…with Byleist. In the blinking of an eye, the tables had turned and it was the Wraith who was howling in pain while a frighteningly blissed-out looking McKay clasped the Wraith's hand to his chest. The child backed away fearfully as Rodney reduced the Pegasus Galaxy's greatest predator to a brittle heap of cloth, bones and withered flesh.

His chest heaving, Rodney let the Wraith carcass drop to the ground, hands shaking violently in the aftermath of his confrontation. His blue eyes were wild and glassy, and the grin on his face looked pained—like he didn't want it to be there, but he couldn't help it.

"Rodney?" John cautiously called out.

The sound of his name startled Rodney, but when his eyes met John's the relief on his face was plain to see and he seemed to calm down a bit. "John? You're not dead!" Rodney gasped, his grin growing impossibly wider—but at least this time the smile made it all the way to his eyes. Even so, John thought he had the same kind of look that Ford had when he was high on the Wraith enzyme, and he had a nasty feeling the scientist was in for another serious crash once the effects of the feeding wore off.

"Now why would I be dead?" John asked reasonably, reaching an arm out to McKay for a hand up. Rodney trotted over to him looking for all the world like a big, gangly puppy.

"I saw you go down," Rodney explained. "And you were yelling."

"So you automatically assumed I was dying? Thanks for the vote of confidence in my survival skills, McKay."

The boyish smile was back, lighting up Rodney's face. "Hey—better to think the worst and be pleasantly surprised than the other way around," McKay responded, crouching next to him on the ground. His hands kept twitching, and John could see the fine tremors still running along the muscles of his arms.

"You okay, Rodney?" he asked, concerned.

"Me? I'm great! Never better, in fact." Rodney's grin became slightly frantic again as he bounced up and down on his haunches. "Did you see that? That was incredible! Seriously, Carson's gotta figure out a way to give this gene to all of us…maybe with a retrovirus or something…" Rodney's eyes wandered along with his thoughts, taking in the lush green surroundings with all the wonder of a child. It was giving John the creeps.

"Earth to Rodney…" he said, waving a hand in front of Rodney's face.

"We're not on Earth," Rodney answered distractedly as something grabbed his attention. "Hermiod!" he suddenly shouted, so loudly it made John's ears ring.

The Asgard appeared as a ghostly figure in the deep shade of the trees, walking out of the cover of the forest until he emerged fully into the sunlight. With a long, slender arm, he beckoned behind him. "It is safe now," Hermiod said, and the Pawnim women and children who'd run off during the fight timidly followed the alien into the clearing. Their eyes kept darting around, searching the trees and sky in fear of another attack. John couldn't blame them—he was more than a little concerned about that himself. Rodney, on the other hand, was riding high and feeling no pain.

Cheerily filling Hermiod in on what he'd missed, Rodney bounced his way over to the little Asgard, abandoning Sheppard for the time being. "Sheppard shot that one over there," he said, pointing helpfully, "and the other one tried to eat me, but I killed it—sucked the life right out of it! And look—I'm not a toddler!" he beamed triumphantly.

"That's debatable," John tossed back, unable to pass up the opportunity to deliver such an easy punch line.

"Oh, ha, ha," Rodney snarked back. "You're just jealous of my Wraith-defying super powers."

John tilted his head at him and frowned. "How about putting those super powers to work and helping me up?" he suggested in his most casual drawl, as if he was totally fine with lounging around on the grass all day waiting to get rescued.

"Oh!" Rodney exclaimed, like it had never occurred to him that John needed help getting up. In a few hyper, bounding steps, he was back at John's side. "Do you think you can stand on your own once I get you up on your feet?"

"Doubtful," Sheppard said with a twist of his lip. "I can't feel my legs at all."

"Hmm…" Rodney replied pensively, casting a quick glance to the cluster of Pawnim currently surrounding Hermiod. The smith's son had now joined the other children in hiding amidst the heavy folds of the women's skirts. "We're taking them with us, right?" he asked.

John scowled in distaste. He didn't like the idea of bringing anyone from this cursed planet back with them. He realized it was callous, but after what they did to Rodney, he didn't particularly want a bunch of them wandering around Atlantis as a constant reminder. As far as he was concerned, they could all take a walk off a cliff and join Lera at the bottom of the gorge like the brain-washed lemmings they were. But one look at Rodney's pleading, expectant face—good God! Was he actually batting his eyes?—made him capitulate without even putting up a fight.

"Yeah, McKay, they're coming," John answered reluctantly. After all, Rodney was the injured party in all this, and if he could find it in his heart to let bygones be bygones, who was he to judge? Just as long as he wasn't expected to be friendly…

"Great!" Rodney burst out, and the unfettered smile on his face was infectious. "I'll just go tell them." And off he went again, leaving John lying defencelessly on the ground.

"Hey!" John shouted after him. "What about me?" Rodney's reply was a vague wave in his direction as he loped off to organise the rescue of a stray pack of Pawnim.


	20. Chapter 20

* * *

Within minutes the little group had collected at the foot of the bridge and the first of the Pawnim women began to cross over to the far side. Rodney jogged his way back to John again, and John finally figured out the problem in getting everyone back to the 'gate. John couldn't walk. And that meant he'd have to wait until he got the feeling back in his legs before following the others. Which was fine, so long as they carried him over to the relative safety of the tree line. McKay was more than capable of getting the refugees and Hermiod back to Atlantis on his own.

"Up you get," Rodney said, both arms outstretched for John to hold onto. There was a look of intense concentration on Rodney's face, which made John smile—it was too damned cute…and Rodney would skin him alive if he ever heard him say anything like that out loud.

Rodney hauled him to his useless feet, hefting him like a big sack of potatoes until he was in the classic piggyback position. John was briefly stunned at how effortlessly Rodney had managed it. Apparently Rodney hadn't been exaggerating about the super strength part of his Wraith powers. Cool.

"Just put me down over there where the undergrowth is nice and thick," John advised, grimacing at the thought of how many bug bites he was in for.

"Are you insane?" Rodney demanded, twisting his head so he could look at him out of the corner of his eye. "I'm not leaving you here, you big doofus."

"Doofus?"

"I think 'doofus' about covers it, if you think for one moment that I'd leave you here to get eaten by Wraith or thrown into a volcano by the crazy locals," Rodney replied in exasperation.

"Rodney, you can't carry me across the gorge on your back!" John pointed out bluntly.

"Well I'm certainly not going to carry you over in my arms," Rodney retorted. "I need them to hold onto the guide ropes."

"You know what I meant. Last time I saw you cross this thing you hardly made it ten steps before you seized up. And that was without having to worry about balancing another person's weight on your back," John argued. They were already at the bridge and Hermiod was grudgingly following the Pawnim folk onto the thick base rope ahead of them.

"Yeah? Well, things have changed," Rodney replied with cocky self-assurance.

John knew better than to shake his confidence when they were about to piggyback their way across a tightrope. Rodney waited until the rest of their group was safely across before stepping up to the thick base rope.

"Hang on tight," Rodney said needlessly, and he let go of John's legs, letting the useless limbs dangle freely so he could use his hands to grab onto the guide ropes.

As Rodney stepped out over misty nothingness, John tightened his grip around the other man's neck. The rope swayed and creaked with every carefully-placed step and John found himself closing his eyes and pressing his face against the soft-cotton expanse of Rodney's back. He could feel the rabbit-fast thumping of McKay's heart against his cheek—it felt like it was trying to break free of his ribcage. But apart from the racing heart and the quick, shallow breathing, Rodney gave no indication that he was scared half to death.

"You okay back there?" Rodney asked when they were about halfway across. The role reversal was so unexpected that John had to huff a laugh against Rodney's back. "Stop it! That tickles. You don't want me to giggle at an inopportune moment and lose my footing, do you?"

"Sorry," John muttered, muffling another chuckle. "Get a move on, would ya? My arms are getting tired." They both knew that John was more than capable of hanging on for as long as was necessary, but John also knew that stopping partway over the gorge was only asking for trouble.

Rodney was obediently continuing his slow sojourn across the bridge when a strange vibration in the base rope made him stop. Both Rodney and John twisted their heads so they could see what was causing it and what they saw triggered twin declarations of 'Oh shit!'

A gathering of super-sized Pawnim warriors had spilled into the clearing behind them, and their lead guard, Tav, was using his sword to saw through the heavy base rope, all the while cursing them as infidels and Wraith worshippers.

"Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding me! How is this even _remotely_ fair?" Rodney squealed, spittle flying from his lips. His eyes, still glazed from the recent Wraith feeding, looked slightly manic as they darted back and forth between the Pawnim warriors and the little clutch of refugees on either end of the bridge.

It was obvious to John that the usually sharp-witted McKay was stymied. And wasn't that just terrifying? The one thing John had always been able to count on was Rodney's ability to focus that massive intellect of his during moments of extreme crisis. But this Rodney—this strung-out, jittery Rodney—was an unknown entity in a highly volatile situation.

"Don't just stand there, McKay—move!" For a heart-stopping moment Rodney froze up and John worried that he'd pushed the scientist beyond his limits. But then they were moving again, and with none of the tenuous caution Rodney had exhibited earlier.

They were about twenty-five feet from the other side when the rope under McKay's feet disappeared. A wordless scream ripped from Rodney's throat as his hands fisted tightly around the two guide ropes on either side of them, his feet now dangling along with John's over the fathomless drop. And then, just as McKay's screams had given way to a babbled string of 'ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod's, the right guide rope went slack on them, making them twist sickeningly in the air.

John nearly lost his grip on McKay, precariously sliding a few inches lower on his back as he scrambled for purchase on Rodney's broad shoulders. He knew what was coming and was braced for it, but the spastic twisting and flailing demonstrated by Rodney indicated that the other man was nowhere near prepared.

"Whatever you do, don't let go!" John shouted over the roar of the water and the girly cries of his friend.

"What? Why would I do that?" Rodney paused from screaming long enough to berate him. "Why would you even _suggest_ something like that? Of _course_ I won't let go!"

"Good! Then brace yourself!" Sheppard shouted, holding on even tighter as the second guide rope snapped behind them and they dropped.

The fall seemed to go on forever; surrounded by the rising mist with no visual cues whatsoever, John was completely disoriented. It wasn't until the rope jerked taut that John even knew which direction was up. He kept his eyes locked on Rodney and saw the muscles in the man's arms strain to keep hold of the rope as they swung with alarming speed towards the rocky cliff face. He had a split second to register the great pride he felt for his friend as he noticed that Rodney's fear had been replaced by stubborn determination—nothing was going to make him let go of that rope. And then they slammed into the side of the cliff with bone-jolting force.

Rodney had taken the brunt of the impact, the breath knocked out of his lungs long enough to let the rope slip between his fingers. A rusty-red streak marked a trail down a stretch of the rope from his abraded hands before he was able to tighten his grip enough to halt their descent.

"Jesus! Rodney, are you okay?" asked John, who was only just now overcoming the shock of the collision himself.

After a few grunting gasps, Rodney finally managed to reply, "I've been better."

"We need to start climbing," said John, not sure if Rodney was freezing up on him again.

"Thank-you for your insightful advice, Captain Obvious!"

John let out a breath of relief—it was the first truly Rodney-esque response he'd received since the Wraith attack, and that had to be a good sign. "That's _Colonel_ Obvious, thank-you. And if you'd let me finish, I was going to say that you don't need to carry me for this—I don't need the use of my legs to climb a rope."

Rodney didn't answer right away, as if the comment deserved some serious contemplation. "Right," he said at last. "But you go first. If you slip, I can catch you."

"If I go first and I slip, we'll both go down," John argued. "You go up first—I'll be fine." John could actually feel Rodney's teeth grinding through his back.

"Either you go first or we just sit here all day, because I'm not moving until you do; and don't think for a moment that I can't do it—super strength, remember?"

John had a gut feeling that Rodney was holding something back on him, but he didn't have time to argue the point—if they didn't start moving now, they would both be too tired to make it to the top. "Fine, I'll go first," he conceded. After all, he reasoned, if he got to the top fast enough, he could help pull Rodney the rest of the way up.

The hardest part was climbing over McKay to get his own grip on the rope above them. He was an accomplished climber, but John wasn't used to rocks that squirmed beneath him and bitterly complained every time he moved. Once he was past the Rodney-shaped obstacle it was smooth sailing. Hell, even without the rope the climb would have been easy. There were terrific hand- and footholds everywhere, not to mention numerous branches and vines protruding from the rock face where the planet's thick vegetation had taken hold.

About eight feet up, John paused as he came across the spot where they'd smashed into the cliff-face. He couldn't help but notice the wet-black blood stains on the rocks and plants. Rodney had been hurt a lot worse than he'd let on, and a zing of anxiety shot up through John's spine. He took a quick glance down to find Rodney climbing with meticulous care below him, grumbling all the while about Participaction and weak, granny arms. Okay—so he'd been hurt, but he also had that super-healing thing going on, right? John remembered that Rodney had been seriously injured in the sword fight after the feeding incident with Byleist, and the wound had healed instantly without leaving so much as a scar. With his mind relatively at ease, and with McKay barking at him to move his scrawny ass, John resumed his steady pace to the top.

His arm muscles were ablaze and he was sweating like he'd just run a marathon by the time his hand reached for the rope and met with a pair of female hands. Another set of lady's hands joined in hauling him the rest of the way over the side and onto solid ground. The two Pawnim women—his saviours—smiled sweetly down at him and one of them dabbed at his cheek with a soft, clean cloth. It came away red with blood, and that was the first indication he'd had that he had been injured at all in the fall. John took the cloth out of the woman's hands and pressed it firmly to his cheek, feeling the swelling lump and grinding pain that suggested his cheekbone might have been fractured. He hadn't even felt it! His adrenalin and the shock of impact must have blocked it from his mind…and it was very possible he had a concussion. He couldn't imagine how much worse it would have been if Rodney hadn't been there to soften the blow.

"Rodney!" he gasped in alarm, trying to sit up, but finding his arms too leaden to do the job. Normally he'd have bounced right back, but his shoulder was still weak from being dislocated not too long ago, and now it was demanding time to recuperate. But he needed to check on Rodney.

Sensing what it was that John wanted, the taller of the two women dragged him back to the edge so he could look down and watch his friend's progress.

"The Wraith Eater is moving more slowly," she confided in worried tones.

"Wraith Eater?" John asked.

"I believe she is referring to Dr. McKay," Hermiod supplied unnecessarily as he joined Sheppard at the cliff's edge.

About six feet down, Rodney was no longer moving. "You hanging in there, buddy?" John called down to him.

Rodney lifted his face to look up at him and John's heart stuttered in his chest. Rodney's face was ashen-grey, sweat beading along his damp hairline and rolling in fat drops off his nose, and the skin under his eyes looked bruised. But even worse than that was the defeated look in his eyes.

"I can't…" Rodney said, his voice so soft that it was John's lip-reading skills more than anything that got the message across.

"Yes, you damn well _can_, McKay," John insisted, his mouth drawing down into a deep frown. "Super strength, remember?"

The complete lack of response frightened John into action. His strained arms received a new burst of energy as he angled himself over the lip of the cliff and grabbed hold of the rope with both hands. Grunting with the effort, he began yanking on the rope and was surprised to find the two Pawnim women flanking him, grasping his arms to help him raise his friend out of the gorge. The three kids and even Hermiod joined in, picking up the slack rope as it left John's hands and forming a kind of tug-o-war line behind him.

With all of them lending a hand, they hoisted McKay to the top in no time. As soon as his friend's chest cleared the ledge, John wrapped his arms around him, rolling with him until they were safely clear of the cliff edge.

Rodney's sharp gasp of pain had John scurrying to get off of him, and it was only then that John saw just how badly injured his friend was. Rodney's black tee was soaked through with blood, and through the largest of the tears in the material John saw the reason for the substantial blood loss—a jagged, broken-off branch about the width of a broom handle jutted out from a deep gash in Rodney's belly.

"John…?" Rodney's weak plea tore John's gaze away from the wound to rest on his pale and distraught face. "S-scared…" Rodney's voice petered out, his expressive features going slack as his eyes slid shut.

"Oh no, you don't!" John ordered gruffly, his eyes stinging. "I am _not_ losing you again, do you hear me?" He tapped Rodney's cheek, shook him by the shoulder, but he got no response. Rodney was gone.


	21. Chapter 21

* * *

Slender grey fingers tugged at John's arm, but John wasn't about to abandon Rodney just yet. "We're not leaving him," he barked at Hermiod.

"Colonel Sheppard, I believe I can save him if you would please move out of the way," Hermiod replied in his annoyingly composed manner.

"Well why didn't you say so in the first place?" John snapped, dragging himself away from Rodney to give the Asgard more room. He forgave Hermiod's sarcastic response only because he was about to work some alien mojo and save McKay's life.

Propped up on his elbow, John observed Hermiod closely, half anticipating to see healing white light emanate from the Asgard's fingertips like in "E.T.". It turned out that Hermiod's healing technique was somewhat more pedestrian. Wrapping his slim fist around the protruding end of the branch lodged in McKay's gut, Hermiod gently eased it free and tossed it to the ground. 

Before their eyes, Rodney's wound erupted in a thick outpouring of semi-congealed blood and bits of leaf and bark from the branch before seamlessly closing up entirely. Within seconds Rodney was gasping for air and trying to sit up.

"Well _I_ could have done _that_," John commented dryly, getting the Asgard equivalent of an eye roll in response.

"What happened?" a dazed-looking Rodney inquired of no one in particular.

"Oh, you know, not much," John volunteered with a shrug. "You just died and came back to life. No biggie."

Rodney's eyes blinked sluggishly for a second as he processed that piece of news. "I was dead?" he asked, like he must have heard wrong.

"Mostly dead," Sheppard amended, a puckish smile flitting across his face despite his attempt to remain serious.

A quicksilver smirk lifted one corner of Rodney's mouth at the "Princess Bride" reference—it was the only movie both he and John agreed deserved to be on the 'top ten movies of all time' list. His smile soon vanished, however, to be replaced by a wincing grimace.

"What's wrong?" John asked, worrying about the possibility of a relapse.

"Hungry," Rodney answered. "I don't suppose you brought any MREs?" he asked hopefully.

John shook his head. They hadn't considered the possibility of a prolonged stay on the planet. "Sorry, buddy. Best I can offer is a power bar."

Rodney's fingers were instantly snapping under his nose, impatiently demanding the hidden treasure. John dug into the pocket of his tac. vest and retrieved the pulverized power bar, quickly handing it over. The groans of delight as Rodney ate were borderline pornographic and for some inexplicable reason caused John's face to heat up.

"Better?" he asked when the last crumb had been hovered into Rodney's greedy mouth.

"Mmm," was Rodney's reply. And then, with a sigh, he rubbed his hands on his grungy pants, only to pull them away again, frowning at the messy result. "So…anyone else think we should make haste before the Merry Men over there decide to pull out the bows and arrows?"

"You sure you're feeling up to it so soon after…" John trailed off, waving an exhausted hand in the general direction of Rodney's midriff. Rodney looked down and saw for the first time how much blood there was. John wouldn't have thought it possible, but his friend's face lost even more colour at the sight.

"You weren't kidding were you—about the mostly dead thing?" Rodney said in round-eyed wonder.

John answered with a shake of his head, not wanting to freak Rodney out with details of his brush with death.

"Huh," Rodney replied, absorbing the new information with the ease of someone used to dangerously close calls. "We still need to get moving. How are you doing? Can you walk yet?"

"Don't know," Sheppard admitted. "It's in the pins and needles stage."

"Right. Well there's only one way to find out." Rodney gingerly got to his feet, swaying dizzyingly from the pint or three of blood he was missing before finding an equilibrium. Once he was steady he held a hand out to John.

* * *

Dr. Elizabeth Weir was leaning over the Gate Room railing when the 'gate started its dialling sequence. They were receiving an incoming wormhole—one that they'd been waiting for for well over three hours. But her death grip on the railing didn't relax until Chuck announced it was Dr. McKay's IDC.

Her relief was short lived, however, as Rodney's voice broke over the radio. "Elizabeth, we've got a bit of a situation here," he said.

"What kind of situation?" Weir asked, the furrow between her eyebrows deepening with concern.

"Seems like we've picked up a few stragglers—two Pawnim women and three children seeking refuge on Atlantis. Oh—and Colonel Sheppard requires medical assistance, so you'd better give Beckett a call," he added as an afterthought.

"I'm fine," she heard John protest in the background.

"You are not," Rodney countered. The two of them sounded like little kids bickering in the playground. "You've just been shot!"

"Rodney?" Elizabeth asked, her anxiety skyrocketing after that last comment.

"He took a Wraith stun blast to the legs. The man can't even walk—please tell Colonel Invulnerable that he needs medical attention. Oh, and better tell Carson that he should probably save a bed for me, too."

"I'm on it," Chuck announced from his console.

Weir nodded her thanks and was about to ask Rodney the nature of his injuries when Hermiod walked through the event horizon, followed by a harried-looking group of women and children. When Rodney finally appeared supporting Sheppard with an arm around his back, Elizabeth's mouth gaped open.

He'd sounded so calm on the radio that Elizabeth had assumed he wasn't badly hurt, but it looked to her like he'd barely escaped a gruesome slaughter. Rodney's sickly-pale skin was streaked and spattered with dark spots of blood and his shredded shirt looked like something out of a slasher horror flick.

Rodney must have observed the astonishment on her face, because he quickly spoke to reassure her. "It looks much worse than it is—hard to believe, I know, but trust me, I feel fine. Maybe a little twitchy, and I'm so hungry that I wouldn't even turn my nose up at tofu, but otherwise I'm fine. Great, even."

Elizabeth's mouth did a guppy impression as she looked back and forth between her chief scientist and her head of military.

"Wraith tried to eat him," Sheppard supplied by way of explanation. "It's a long, long…long story."

It seemed the short answer would have to suffice for now because Carson had arrived with his team. They had to have sprinted from the infirmary to get there so fast. She watched as the doctor's face ran the course from alarm through to professional concern as his men brought the two gurneys around and trundled his two new patients off to the infirmary.

Around her, Elizabeth could feel tension in the air and she turned to find Chuck and the other expedition members in the Control Room looking to her in suspense. She reminded herself that it was less than a week ago that Sheppard's team had walked thought that 'gate without Dr. McKay, and his loss had had an surprisingly powerful impact on all of them—not just on those who counted themselves among his close friends. Seeing him come through the 'gate just now, looking like a walking dead man, must have been quite a shock.

"Chuck, if you could arrange accommodations for our guests?" Elizabeth asked, gesturing to the knot of Pawnim escapees milling around in the Gate Room below. He nodded briskly, clearly glad to have something constructive to do. She knew how he felt. "I'll be in the infirmary if anyone needs me," she said in her most soothing voice. "I promise I'll keep everyone posted."

As she walked through the halls of Atlantis, greeting friends and colleagues as she passed, her smile felt brittle. The last week had taken its toll on her as well, and she wasn't sure how well she'd be able to cope if Carson had any bad news to impart. Still, people were looking to her for support and guidance; they were depending on her to be strong. So she stiffened her spine and walked tall, a bright 'hello' on her lips for one and all.

But the heavy ball of tension in the pit of her stomach didn't dissipate until she entered the infirmary and was met with the all-too-familiar sight of business as usual. Lying on adjoining beds, John and Rodney had been cleaned up and dressed in fresh white scrubs. Rodney was complaining loudly about the need for real food, rather than the intravenous crap Carson was subjecting him to, while Carson defended his decision with a list of medical grounds that included such things as dehydration and electrolyte balances. Sheppard simply laid there, arm draped across his eyes, trying to block out the racket. There was the tiniest hint of a smile curling the corners of the colonel's lips.

It was Carson who was first to acknowledge her presence. "Hello, Elizabeth," he greeted her with his customarily warm smile.

"How are your patients?" she asked, hands clasped behind her back, a furtive sparkle in her eye.

Before Carson could respond, Rodney cut in. "Elizabeth—thank God! Can you tell Dr. Mosquito here that if he drains any more of my blood for his wacky experiments the well will run dry? And why can't I get my nutrients the old-fashioned way? A tall glass of apple juice and some cookies—that's all I ask. Although I wouldn't say no to some roasted chicken and a nice side of garlic mashed potatoes."

Elizabeth chuckled at the despairing eye roll Carson sent her way. They were such children, really, she thought fondly.

"Ye'll get your food just as soon as I'm convinced you can keep it down. You're the one who was complaining about feeling queasy, if you'll remember," Carson pointed out brusquely.

"Well…I take it back, then," Rodney said with a pout.

"You see what I have to put up with?" Carson groused playfully. But he flashed Elizabeth a glance that made her stomach knot. When he quietly asked her if they could have a word in private and led her out to the waiting area, Elizabeth felt a cold hand grip her heart. This was the bad news she'd been fearing.

Carson placed his hand on her arm in what was meant to be a comforting gesture, but only served to elevate Elizabeth's apprehension. "What is it, Carson?" she asked once they were safely out of earshot.

His face was grim as he answered, "Our young Rodney has just recovered from near-mortal injuries shortly after having been fed on by a Wraith. As before, the enzyme activated his Wraith genes which allowed him to heal, but he lost a good deal of blood and…" Worried blue eyes scanned hers, as if judging how well she was going to take the news.

"And?" she prompted, feeling ever muscle in her body tense up.

"Do you remember when I explained how Rodney's regenerative abilities are fuelled by the enzyme?" he asked, shifting from one foot to the other.

Elizabeth nodded. "Like a battery being recharged," she answered dutifully.

"Aye. Well, the feeding charged his battery, as it were, but the energy required to help him heal from a wound that should have killed him has all but sapped it dry."

"What are you saying?" Elizabeth asked, her hands clasped together so tightly her knuckles had turned white.

"Rodney's about to go through a sudden, massive withdrawal from the enzyme. As it was, the last time he suffered a withdrawal it was touch and go, but I fear that in his weakened state, having lost so much blood… Elizabeth, I have to warn you that it's highly doubtful he'll be able to pull through this time." The dark shadow that passed over Carson's face told her just how desperately he wished it weren't so.

Elizabeth felt a pang of grief strike her deep in the chest as she glanced through the infirmary door at Rodney. He was propped up on one elbow, happily nattering at John who was indulging him in that good-natured way he reserved for Rodney alone.

"Does he know?" she asked Carson.

"No. And I don't plan on tellin' him. There's no sense worrying him over something we can do nothing about."

Elizabeth frowned, unsure whether or not she liked the idea of concealing the severity of Rodney's condition from him. He deserved to know the truth—she knew that if she was in his place she would want to know. At the very least it would allow him time to put his affairs in order.

But on the other hand, if there was the remotest possibility that he could pull through this, the added stress would only word against him. No. He needed every conceivable advantage he could get right now. Even if that meant telling him bald-faced lies to give him hope.


	22. Chapter 22

* * *

Rodney was constantly amazed that no matter how many times he reminded people that he was a genius they still managed to come to the conclusion that he was a complete idiot. Did Elizabeth and Carson think they were being subtle with the hushed semi-private conversations and sympathetic glances? He knew it was bad. He knew he was most likely dying and they didn't think he could handle the news…or maybe they thought they were doing him a favour by keeping the truth from him. Whatever.

But if it made it easier for them to deal with it, Rodney supposed he could forgive them. He was pretty new to the concept of having friends—real friends, not the kind that sucked up to you for favours or to gain access to his brilliant mind. One thing he'd learned over the last couple of years was that people grieved much deeper for friends than they did for colleagues or acquaintances. He knew that his 'demise' less than a week ago had been hard on the people he considered friends, and if he was about to die—for real, this time—then this was going to be an astronomically awful week for them. What worried him most, (apart from the bit where he was about to die of course, because really_—death?—_not something he was particularly looking forward to) was that Weir and Beckett seemed to be keeping John out of the loop. If anyone deserved to be part of the loop it was John, because as his best friend, John was going to be crushed by his death.

On the other hand, Rodney thought that maybe it was for the best—not the crushing John part, but the John-not-knowing part. It was selfish, perhaps, but it would be easier to face imminent death without having Sheppard look at him with pity in his eyes—or worse, avoiding him altogether because he couldn't cope with it. He needed John to just be…John.

Rodney was alone at the moment, and although he'd never been much of a people person before, right now he was desperately wished he had some company. He mentally cursed Carson for releasing John and John for opting to return to his quarters to shower and change rather than stay and keep him company. What he wouldn't give to hear that laissez-faire drawl belittling his perceived hypochondria. Anything to take his mind off his upcoming—and undoubtedly agonizing—death.

He'd figured out what was in store for him. Another crash from the Wraith enzyme breaking down in his system, and he was guessing that this time he wasn't expected to bounce back from it. He remembered Carson telling him how close a call it had been the last time, and he'd been in much better shape then. Of course, he knew Carson would do his best to manage the pain and make him as comfortable as possible, but it would still be a slow and horrific way to go. Rodney had always imagined going out with a bang—literally—or dying peacefully in his sleep at a ripe old age. If it were up to him…

With a jolt, Rodney realised that it really _was_ up to him. He didn't have to spend his last hours writhing in pain while waiting for the Grim Reaper to finish his game of Twister and come get him. He had it in his power to meet death head on—on his own terms.

An aching lump formed in his throat to go along with the hot sting of tears behind his eyes. He'd never seriously contemplated ending his own life before. He'd had a couple of slips recently, sure, but he'd never consciously planned anything—it just sort of…happened. The thought of purposely leaving everything behind, of leaving his friends—leaving John—behind, caused his chest to constrict, making it hard to breathe. But the thought of them watching him die slowly from enzyme withdrawal, helpless to do anything to stop it, was far worse. And that was enough to help him decide the matter.

He had a brief window of opportunity before Carson returned from the labs and the nurse came back from the mess hall with the breakfast he'd pestered her into fetching. It was only 0530, but that didn't mean anything on Atlantis—there would still be people roaming the halls, and he would have to be careful to avoid being spotted and dragged back to the infirmary.

As Rodney swung his legs off the bed and gently pulled the IV out from the back of his hand, he felt completely wrung out. There was a distinct _heaviness_ that seemed to blanket his entire body—a weariness that seemed to penetrate to his very bones. It took an almost heroic effort to get to his feet and make it out of the infirmary. Only then did the adrenalin kick in, giving him enough of a boost to reach the transporter.

As an afterthought, Rodney checked the hallway to make sure he was alone. He wasn't sure if he was relieved of disappointed to find that no one had noticed his escape. Stepping into the transporter, Rodney took a moment to choose a good location before touching the screen. He knew just the spot.

The south pier was a desolate place at the best of times. But in the grey light of pre-dawn, the gun-metal pier met the drab sea and sky with a depressingly monotonous lack of colour and life. The briny air cloyed at Rodney as he slouched his way to the end of the pier. The large, choppy waves sent plumes of salty spray high over the edge, sheathing Rodney's skin with a bath of tears—a fitting welcome, given the circumstances, Rodney thought morosely.

By the time he reached the end of the pier his white scrubs were damp, clinging uncomfortably to his chilled skin. Sitting down with his legs dangling over the side, Rodney took a nervous glance over the edge.

It was a long way down to the crashing waves. That was good, he reasoned, swallowing hard. Most likely the fall would kill him, and if it didn't, it wouldn't take long for the waves to pummel him into unconsciousness against the metal abutment below. Either way it would be over quickly. He probably wouldn't even remain conscious long enough to suffer the terror of drowning.

Now…if he could only convince his body that it was a good idea to move.

* * *

John had never showered and changed so fast in his life. He didn't like the idea of leaving Rodney alone, knowing the kind of mood swings he was prone to while coming down off the enzyme. But John couldn't very well spend the next couple of days wearing scrubs and reeking to high heaven, and he figured Rodney would be safe enough in the infirmary until his return.

He'd only been gone half an hour, but even before he crossed over the threshold into the infirmary, the complete silence tipped him off that something was very wrong. Rodney was supposed to be having breakfast, and there should have been the usual noise that accompanied a meal with McKay. But there was no griping to be heard. No clattering of utensils, and no running commentary on the quality of the food. No Rodney.

Moments later his eyes confirmed what his ears had already told him—the infirmary was deserted. A rising sense of foreboding propelled John back down the hallway to the transporter. 

Somehow he knew that Rodney hadn't gone to his quarters or to any of his regular haunts. Somehow he knew exactly what Rodney was up to, and he only prayed that he wasn't too late to stop him. Images of McKay's lifeless, broken body sprawled at the foot of one of the tall towers sprang readily to mind, making his stomach turn sour.

He needed to find out where Rodney was fast, and the best way to do that… John punched the screen and he was transported directly to the jumper bay. Knocking past an engineer who got in the way, John sprinted to the nearest puddle jumper only to find Zelenka inside, elbow deep in the jumper's systems.

"Colonel?" Zelenka asked, startled by the unexpected company.

"I'm gonna need the jumper, Radek," Sheppard said as he brushed past the nonplussed Czech to reach the pilot's seat.

Behind him, he caught a glimpse of the scientist sliding his glasses further up on his nose as he untangled his arm from the mass of loose wiring attached to the jumper's crystals. "I am sorry, Colonel, but jumpers are off-line. There were no scheduled flights until 0900," he said defensively.

"Well then, put one back on-line," Sheppard ordered. "This is an emergency."

"You misunderstand," Zelenka replied apologetically, "we are installing new synchronized flight program—none of the jumpers can be brought on-line until the program has been fully uploaded."

Sheppard cursed under his breath. Okay, he rationalized, the jumpers and their HUDs were no longer an option, but he could still use the LSD. At his thought, the hand-held Life Signs Detector ejected from its slot in the pilot-side wall.

Snatching up the little device, John bolted from the puddle jumper, skirting around Zelenka, who barely managed to get out the way in time to avoid getting flattened. John had to get to wherever Rodney was by foot and there wasn't a moment to spare. He'd have to save his apologies for later.

As John dashed back to the transporter, he activated the LSD and set it to city-wide scan. He was relieved when his suspicions were confirmed—there was a solitary dot way out on the very edge of the south pier. It had to be McKay, and he was beyond relieved that there was still a life sign to pick up. Throwing himself into the transporter, John stabbed at the south pier on the screen's map.

"C'mon, c'mon," he muttered, willing the transporter to move faster. And because this was Atlantis, he wasn't at all surprised when it complied, opening an instant later onto the exit nearest Rodney's location. A quick visual scan of the pier turned up the lone figure of his friend, shoulders hunched against the wind and sea spray.

It was a long walk to the end of the pier, and his urgency only made the distance seem longer, but he was wary enough to follow his gut instinct and approach him cautiously. The last thing he wanted to do was scare McKay into falling off the pier.

When he was near enough for Rodney to hear him over the sound of the breaking waves, John announced his presence. "Hey, Rodney, mind if I join you?" he asked, sidling closer.

Startled blue eyes turned on him and John sucked in a breath—Rodney looked like hell. Wet-darkened hair emphasized his chalk-white skin and the red in his eyes belied the fact that tears had been shed. It tugged at John's heart to think of him sitting out here by himself, crying. More than anything, he wanted to pull Rodney into a hug, which was a very confusing revelation to be having, all things considered.

Long lashes shielded his view of Rodney's downcast eyes as his friend looked away in embarrassment. "This is all your fault, you know," Rodney said quietly, with only the flimsiest attempt to sound resentful.

Taking that as an invitation, John braved the remaining distance between them and sat next to Rodney, dangling his legs over the edge in a way that said 'if you go over, I'm going with you'.

"Oh? How's that?" Sheppard casually replied. He shifted uneasily in the weighted silence that followed. Just when he was about to say something—anything, really—to get the conversation moving again, Rodney finally spoke.

"I couldn't do it." His voice was so small that John had to strain his ears to hear it over the roar of the ocean. "All I could think about was how disappointed you'd be in me if I took the easy way out."

John stilled as Rodney's words were accompanied by a hitching movement, and the other man inched over until their legs were pressed together from hip to knee. He had a sudden flashback to a hot summer day when he was ten and his best friend Ray had pricked their thumbs and made them blood brothers. John got the distinct impression that this was the same kind of thing—Rodney was trying to connect with him, trying to tell him things that refused to come out in the form of words. And, not being terribly good with words himself, John answered the unspoken communication by nudging Rodney's knee. That earned him a tentative, quivering attempt at a smile.

"You know I'd be a lot more than disappointed, right?" John asked, and now it was his turn to slide his gaze away in embarrassment as Rodney's head snapped up to stare at him.

"You would?" Rodney's astonishment was apparent, but he quickly back-pedalled. "Well of _course_ you would. My untimely demise would no doubt throw all of Atlantis into utter chaos."

John hissed inwardly as the words struck dangerously close to the truth—certainly _his_ world had been thrown into chaos, and the reminder sparked a bizarre recurrence of the grief he'd felt in the days following Rodney's 'death'. Strange, he thought, to feel grief over someone who was sitting right next to you.

Rodney must have taken his silence as a kind of reprimand, because it spurred an outburst of lightning-quick babble. "Not that I think you guys can't do your jobs—it's not as if Elizabeth hired a bunch of imbeciles to man the most important expedition humankind has ever launched. And before you say anything, yes, I am aware of the fact that I refer to my staff as a bunch of idiots on an almost daily basis, but really? that's like a term of endearment coming from me. Certainly, I consider Zelenka's brain to be first-rate. Naturally he's not up to my level of genius, but he's brilliant nonetheless, and he's definitely my choice to take over my position when I'm gone. Oh—do you think I should tell Elizabeth that? Not that there's anyone else on Atlantis even remotely capable of filling my shoes, but maybe I should make it an official request?"

"Hey, hey," John interrupted before the rant could continue. "I thought you said you weren't gonna…you know," John ended vaguely, gesturing with a wave to the ocean below.

"What? Take a swan dive?" Rodney asked with typical bluntness. "No. I don't think you've got anything to worry about there."

"Then what's with all the doom and gloom talk about handing over the lab keys to Zelenka?" John asked. This wasn't like Rodney's usual 'we're so screwed' panic. John was used to that. This time there was no spark of fight in his eyes when he looked at him. There was no mad brainstorming going on in that genius head of his to solve the problem…whatever the problem was. There was just defeat and resignation, like he'd already given up hope. And the worst part was that John didn't know what was wrong or how he could fix it.

Rodney tensed a moment before sighing and looking John straight in the eye, holding his gaze for the first time since John had sat down. His expression was bleak. "You're my best friend," Rodney stated in a way that was almost a question, "so if anyone has the right to know, it's you."

John wanted to wipe out all doubts about the solidity of their friendship, but first he had to find out what had brought on this 'end of the world' talk. He held his breath, waiting anxiously for Rodney to continue.

"Carson doesn't think I'm strong enough to survive another withdrawal from the enzyme," Rodney stated flatly, his jaw jutting out in a display of bravery that John knew was for his benefit. "I'm dying."

John was struck speechless. If Carson had sprung this news on Rodney, it had to have been after John left for his quarters. But then why would the doctor leave him alone? He had to know that Rodney wouldn't take the news well.

Anger bubbled just below the surface as John envisioned the conversation he was going to have with Carson later. But he kept it in check, because Rodney needed him right now more than John needed to vent his fury.

Sitting next to him, Rodney's shoulders hunched even more, as if the confession had made the whole thing to big for him to bear. Without a second thought, John wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him in tight.

It may not be much, but it was all the reassurance he could give, and as Rodney curled into the one-armed hug, he thought that maybe it was enough.


	23. Chapter 23

* * *

From his bed in the infirmary, Rodney could hear Sheppard laying into Carson in the doctor's private office. But with all the shouting, there was nothing even remotely private about their conversation, and Rodney found that he was both touched and embarrassed that John felt it was necessary to chew Carson out on his behalf. Rodney knew he should probably be feeling guilty for getting Carson and his staff into trouble, but under the circumstances, he decided he deserved to be a little self-absorbed. After all, he estimated that he only had a day or so left to live…if he was lucky.

Eventually the shouting died down and a severely deflated Carson Beckett emerged from his office. He looked absolutely stricken as he approached Rodney's bed.

"I am so, so sorry Rodney," he said, and he actually wrung his hands, which Rodney didn't think ever happened outside of romance novels and daytime soaps.

Rodney brushed off the apology with a half-hearted shrug. "Not your fault I went AWOL, Carson," he said.

"Aye, but it was wrong of me to keep you from the truth the way I did," Carson argued. "You should never have had to learn of your prognosis that way."

"So it's true, then—I'm really gonna die," Rodney stated flatly.

If possible, Carson looked even more devastated than he was before. With an earnestness that rolled off him in waves, Carson said, "I won't lie to you—your chances are slim at best, but there _is_ still a chance. That's why I chose not to tell you. I thought you'd fight harder if you didn't know the odds against you."

Rodney snorted. "Shows how much you know," he replied. "I always do my best when faced with impossible odds. Just ask Sheppard."

"He's got a point there, Doc," said Sheppard, coming up behind Carson to take his spot next to Rodney's bed. The two men shared a look that seemed to go a long way in patching any hard feelings between them before they turned in unison to face Rodney. "If anyone can beat this thing it's Rodney."

Unused to receiving such unsolicited praise, McKay looked down at his hands, feeling the heat rising in his cheeks. He was aware that Sheppard hadn't taken his eyes off him, and he could feel his gaze like a brand against his skin, warming him even further.

Thankfully he was saved from further scrutiny by the timely arrival of their team mates. Teyla came right over to his bedside, her warm hands clasping his as she pressed their foreheads together in greeting. Ronon hung back, arms crossed tightly over his chest and a slight frown on his face. It was as close to concerned as Rodney had ever seen him, and that, more than anything else so far, filled him with a sense of foreboding.

"I'm not dead yet, people," Rodney sniped, trying to make light of it. "So can we dispense with the kicked-puppy faces?"

Teyla looked especially chastened. "Of course—you are right, Rodney. We have only just arrived on the Daedalus and learned of your…predicament. We do not doubt that you will come through this stronger than ever."

Ronon grunted in agreement from his corner. "Too stubborn not to," he added in his casually gruff voice.

Rodney chose to take that as a compliment and he gave the Satedan a tight-lipped smile. "Yes. Thank-you for the in-depth psychological profile, Dr. Phil."

"Welcome," Ronon replied, deadpan.

Zelenka and Miko arrived next, and Elizabeth followed shortly afterwards. The crowd now gathered around his bed was large to the point of absurdity, and Rodney felt deeply touched. And bless Elizabeth for keeping a smile on her face, even if it did look a bit forced, and Zelenka for bringing him his laptop, even though Carson was bound to confiscate it the moment they left the infirmary. As for Miko—painfully shy at the best of times—she seemed overwhelmed by the situation and she blinked owlishly at him, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks as she handed him the bottle of champagne she'd been saving for a special occasion.

"For when you are better," she said softly, her chin wobbling bravely, and she slid her way to the back of the crowd.

Honestly, Rodney was at a complete loss for words, which was a miracle in itself. Sadly, even if he'd had a myriad of pithy comments and comforting words at the tip of his tongue, he would never have had the chance to impart them. The first pains struck like a bolt of lightning, making him double over, too breathless to even scream.

"Rodney?" Someone, maybe all of them, asked in a worried tone. Rodney flailed his arms until he found a hand and latched onto it like it was a life preserver. The hand, large and strong, gripped his reassuringly, and he focused all his attention on it. He was only peripherally aware that Carson was kicking his other visitors out. When the pain withdrew enough for him to open his eyes and draw in a proper breath of air, he was relieved to find that it was John's hand he'd grabbed—that John was still there with him, looking down at him with serious determination.

"John?" he asked…and was that really _his_ voice sounding so shaky and terrified? "I'm sorry."

John's grip tightened on his hand. "You have nothing to be sorry for," he said firmly.

Rodney shook his head—John didn't get it. "No, I do…or at least I will. I'm sorry for what I might say. The last time, when it got bad…let's just say I might say things—horrible, mean things—and I want you to know that I'm sorry. You know, in advance."

The smirk on John's face said it all. It said 'bring it on' and 'I dare you to do your worst', but most importantly it said 'I'm not going anywhere, no matter what'.

* * *

Touching Rodney became an almost superstitious thing to John in the long, awful hours that followed. He was convinced that so long as he held Rodney's hand or was there to brush the sweat-dampened hair off his forehead—so long as he didn't let go—then Rodney wouldn't die. It was stupid, he knew, but it made him feel like he had some sort of control over the situation. Not that he actually fooled himself that there was anything he could really do to make things better—not even Carson with his vast medical knowledge and his fancy machines could manage that.

John had never witnessed anything as scary as the pain-fevered ramblings and near-demonic cursing that emanated from his friend's mouth when the withdrawal hit its peak. The venom behind the words didn't sting nearly as much as the knowledge that the pain that had produced them was in some way his fault. If only John had insisted on staying behind in the clearing while Rodney took Hermiod and the refuges back to Atlantis, he might have been able to hold off the Pawnim attack. Rodney would have made it home safe and sound.

In a way, John felt even more useless now than he had while he'd been chained to a fence and forced to watch as Rodney plummeted into a volcano. This was an enemy that he was helpless to defeat, so he hovered and fretted, and occasionally when Rodney turned pained, bloodshot eyes to him seeking reassurance, he actually felt needed.

It had been nearly eleven hours since the withdrawal had kicked in, and John couldn't help noticing Carson's increasing agitation. The doctor was hovering almost as much as John now, taking readings and fiddling with Rodney's medications. But what really frightened John was how obviously worried the doctor was. It was broadcast loud and clear in those sensitive blue eyes of his.

It shouldn't have been a shock when Rodney crashed—all the signs had been pointing in that direction for the last several hours—but it still knocked the wind out of John when the heart monitor's rhythmic blips turned into one long, continuous beep. There was a flurry of activity around him and John was summarily escorted out of the infirmary and into the waiting room by one of Beckett's nurses. John was too shell-shocked to protest and went with her like a lamb to the slaughter.

He found out that he wasn't alone. Drs. Weir and Zelenka were in the waiting room as well, and neither of them looked as if they'd seen a pillow in days. When he came out of the infirmary to join them, they looked up at him anxiously, hoping for good news on Rodney's condition. John could only answer with a bleak shake of his head.

Zelenka looked away, his hands fidgeting with the need to _do_ something. John could relate. As for Elizabeth, she began pacing up a storm, and John was grateful that she hadn't tried to say something comforting. He didn't think he could deal with platitudes at the moment.

Some of the longest minutes of John's life proceeded to pass in sombre silence outside the infirmary. He lost track of time—he had no idea if it was day or night, or how long they'd been waiting—but when the door slid open and Dr. Beckett walked towards them, John was pretty sure time came to a stop altogether. Carson wasn't smiling, and that was never a good thing. He braced himself for the bad news.

"We managed to get him back," said Carson without preamble. "But it was a near thing."

"But he made it, yes?" asked Zelenka. "He will be okay?"

Carson's eyes flashed with grief. "He's hanging on by the barest of threads. Frankly, it's a miracle we got him back at all. And he's weaker now—his heart's undergone a severe strain. I feel I should warn you all that he won't be able to survive another crash like that."

John grimaced as the acid in his stomach threatened to eat a hole right through his chest. Elizabeth came over to stand next to him, placing a comforting hand on his forearm, and John did his best to tamp down his emotions. Rodney wasn't gone—not yet—and he'd be damned if he was going to give up on the man now.

"I need to see him," Sheppard said, his voice tight.

Carson looked him over and must have concluded that there was no way he was going to win this argument. He simply nodded. "Fine. But only for a minute or two. I mean it—his condition is highly unstable, and I can't risk you getting in the way if Rodney takes another turn for the worse."

Sheppard agreed readily enough and silently entered the infirmary. Rodney was hooked up to half a dozen machines and he was so still that for a moment John feared he'd passed away while Carson was talking to them. Only the steady beeping of the heart monitor assured him that his friend was still alive.

John took up his usual position next to McKay's bed and curled his fingers around the other man's hand. He'd long since stopped worrying what others might think—not that anyone had so much as blinked at his uncharacteristic display of concern for Rodney. They'd all seen how the scientist's death had affected him the first time, and they were kind enough to cut him some slack.

"Okay, buddy, I only have a minute here before Carson kicks me out, so listen up," he said in a strained whisper. "This is the crunch time. This is the time where you pull off another one of your famous Hail Mary moves. This is dozens of darts on a collision course with Atlantis and you've got 40 seconds to get the shields up. This is a sixty foot wave about to crash into the city and you're the only one who can get the lightning down to the shield generators in time. It's all down to you, now. Pressure's on, and everyone here is counting on you to come back to us. So you're going to keep fighting. I'm ordering you not to die, you got that Rodney?"

A hand landed on Sheppard's shoulder and he started. He hadn't even heard Carson's approach. "Visiting hour's over, son," Carson stated firmly but kindly.

John nodded, his face carefully neutral, and he gave Rodney's hand one last squeeze before leaving to join the others in the waiting room.

* * *

Rodney was lying under a heavy blanket of snow with a long snake made of stinky old woollen socks trying to claw its way down his throat. He was choking on the scratchy wool, struggling madly to free his limbs from the binding restraint of the wet snow when he heard a familiar voice calling to him in the darkness.

"Relax, Rodney. You've been intubated—we'll get the tube out just as soon as you've calmed down."

There was no mistaking Carson's rich Scottish brogue. The sound of his friend's voice—proof that he was still alive—was such a relief that Rodney immediately ceased struggling. It took a great deal of effort, but he finally managed to pry his eyelids open. He was greeted by the smiling faces of John, Elizabeth and Carson, and if he'd had the energy to do anything apart from shiver, he would have returned their smiles with one of his own.

"That's it," Carson cooed and took hold of the breathing tube. "Now give us a good, strong cough, lad."

Rodney did his best to comply and his throat was promptly shredded by the retreating plastic tube. He wheezed in a shaky breath laced with fire and razor blades, and attempted to speak. Words that were meant to sound eloquent came out as a weak croak instead. "Water—so thirsty."

Carson did him one better and retrieved a plastic cup full of ice chips, popping one into Rodney's mouth. The cold numbed some of the pain in his throat and Rodney closed his eyes to fully appreciate the sensation.

When he opened his eyes again, Carson and Elizabeth had gone and the lights had been dimmed for the night shift. With a raspy cough, Rodney woke John, who'd fallen asleep in the chair next to his bed.

Bleary hazel eyes blinked at him through a veil of exhaustion, but John perked up nonetheless the moment he realized Rodney was awake.

"Hey there, sleepyhead. Welcome back to the land of the living." The smile on John's face was unadulterated relief, and Rodney knew that things must have gotten pretty bad.

"How long…?" Rodney started before his dry throat protested the abuse. Rodney winced.

"You've been out of it for the better part of a day," John answered, lifting Rodney's head carefully to offer him a short sip of lukewarm water from the cup on the side table.

Despite the tepid temperature, the water was sweet ambrosia as it dribbled past Rodney's lips to wet his sandpaper-dry throat. Rodney sighed blissfully, feeling totally wiped just from the effort of keeping his head up off the pillow.

"How're you feeling?" asked John, sitting back in his chair.

"I feel like an elephant parked itself on my chest," Rodney replied honestly. "But otherwise…hey—does this mean I made it?" he asked, his eyes growing wide with amazement at the possibility.

John's lips twisted into a lopsided smile. "Yeah, you made it. Doc says you're out of the woods now. But you gave us a hell of a scare back there—your heart stopped three times last night, and every time, we thought we'd lost you for good."

Rodney got a faraway look in his eyes as he searched his brain for a gauzy, half-lost memory. "You ordered me not to die, didn't you? You were there the whole time?" he asked, his face lighting up with a grin.

John shifted uncomfortably under Rodney's frankly awed gaze. "It was the least I could do," Sheppard answered, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

That only upped the voltage of Rodney's smile. "You held my hand, didn't you?" Sheppard's spooked expression told him he'd got it in one. "Ha! I knew it! You care about me!"

Sheppard's face pinked slightly and his eyes shifted around the room before settling back on him. "'Course I care about you—you're my friend."

Rodney's only response was to smirk smugly back at him. If he was right—and it was _him_, so that was a given—then Sheppard had just tipped his hand. Things were going to get interesting.

He couldn't wait.


	24. Chapter 24

* * *

A special thanks to my readers for making it such a joy to write this story--which is now, officially, the longest thing I've ever written! I could be persuaded to write a sequel if there's enough interest, so it's possible the saga may continue...

* * *

One great thing about being young again, Rodney decided, was that he was able to bounce back so much faster. A convalescence that would normally have laid him out in the infirmary for at least a week was reduced to only three days. Three days of absolute boredom interspersed with regular meals and far less regular visits from his overworked friends.

Of course, he understood that life on Atlantis couldn't grind to a halt simply because Dr. Rodney McKay was out of commission. But still, the irrational part of his mind (and it was a miniscule part at best) kept whispering things like 'out of sight, out of mind' with sour disdain for the fickleness of friendship. His greatest consolation was that John had frequently popped in to see him, which only served to strengthen his new theory.

When Carson gave him the thumbs up to leave the infirmary on day three of his recovery, Rodney was eager to make his escape. He half-listened to Carson's list of acceptable activities and required check-ups while he plotted ways to get John alone to test his theory. With 'the talk' over and a hot bath in his quarters calling to him, Rodney headed off, humming a random tune that may or may not have sounded like 'Take a Chance on Me'.

He first noticed something was amiss when he caught Miko and Lt. Corrigan huddled together in a quiet side corridor, whispering. As soon as Rodney spotted them they jumped apart and scurried off in opposite directions. It seemed highly unlikely that they were hiding some sort of secret tryst, since Miko quite rightly preferred brains over brawn, but the guilt on their faces when he caught them was undeniable.

That alone might not have been enough to get his Spidey senses tingling, but when Zelenka cornered him moments later to ask him some inane questions about 'gate matter/conversion ratios, Rodney got the distinct impression Radek was stalling him. His first thought was that his underling was trying to keep him away from the labs; that some disaster had befallen the city while he'd been tucked away in Carson's prison, and they were trying to keep him from finding out about it. They probably—foolishly—believed they could fix the problem without his help. Or maybe Carson had forbidden them to get him involved, knowing that he would jump back into the fray before being cleared for active duty. It made sense—none of his minions had been by to visit him in the last couple of days. Not even Zelenka, who would normally have made the effort to see him at least once.

When Rodney pushed past Radek to head for the labs, the Czech panicked. "You must be hungry. Would you not rather come with me to the commissary?"

Okay…things must have gotten completely out of hand if they were relying on Radek's abysmal undercover skills to keep him away from the labs. In Rodney's head, he pictured his work station smouldering and charred from an explosion, his life's work literally gone up in smoke. Shaking off Zelenka's grip on his arm, he stormed down the halls with renewed purpose.

When he got to the labs, however, everything looked to be in order. There was no evidence of a disaster, man-made or otherwise. In fact, the place hadn't looked so spotless since they'd moved in nearly three years ago. Work stations were cleaned and organised, garbage cans had been emptied, computers had been turned off…and his staff…were nowhere to be found.

"Where the hell is everybody?" Rodney exploded, rounding on a flustered, wide-eyed Zelenka. "I'm gone for a few days and suddenly the entire science department decides to play hooky? What is this, junior high? What's next, spit-balls to the back of my head when I'm up at the whiteboard? Of all the immature, irresponsible…and what were you and Miko doing lurking around in the hallways? I can usually count on the two of you at least to actually do your jobs—am I not giving you enough to do? Is that it? Because that can be rectified, my friend!"

Radek crossed his arms and waited until Rodney finished his tirade. He looked decidedly unimpressed by his hysterics, and Rodney wondered if he was starting to lose his touch.

"Are you finished?" Zelenka asked patiently.

Rodney sputtered a couple of times, but he really didn't have anything else to add, so he just nodded.

"Good," said Radek. "I told them it would not work, that you would sniff out the truth. Just promise you will not be too hard on them—their hearts are in the right place. Their brains, however…"

Rodney blinked at Zelenka, thinking that maybe he hadn't been speaking English, because what he'd said made no sense whatsoever. "Okay, back up, Sparky. What did the idiots do this time, and how big a mess am I gonna have to clean up?"

Now it was Radek's turn to blink at him in confusion. Finally he just waved his hands in the air and turned to head back down the corridor. "Just…follow," he said, shaking his head as if he couldn't believe he'd been saddled with this burden.

For lack of any better ideas, Rodney followed the Czech through Atlantis, hounding the frustratingly silent scientist for an explanation.

When the doors of the mess hall slid open, the last thing Rodney expected was a roomful of shouting people. The shock of it nearly sent him into cardiac arrest, and he clutched at his chest as he looked around in panic, trying to discover the cause of all the shouting.

It took an embarrassingly long time for him to realise they weren't actually under attack. A brightly painted banner spanning a portion of the back wall read, 'Happy Anniversary, Rodney!' All the senior staff, a good chunk of the military personnel and the entire science department were crammed into the mess hall, hooting and cheering and undoubtedly drunk on contraband Athosian ale.

It was by far the coolest thing anyone had ever done for him, and Rodney felt a lump form in his throat as he stared, dumbfounded, at the crowd of people gathered before him. Never in his entire life had he been the centre of so much positive attention—this was how he'd always imagined it would feel to win the Nobel Prize.

Dr. Weir weaved her way through the masses to stand next to him and she tapped a spoon against the champagne glass she was holding to settle everybody down. "If I can have everyone's attention, please," she said, and waited until she had all eyes on her before she continued. "Thank-you. Now, as many of you already know, Dr. Rodney McKay recently celebrated his third year anniversary with the Atlantis Project." Elizabeth paused until the resulting applause died down.

"I'll be the first to admit," she continued, "that when Rodney came to me almost two weeks ago and proudly announced this achievement I was less than enthusiastic in my response. After all, with everything going on here in the city—all the trials we've faced and the triumphs we've shared—a three-year anniversary seemed…rather trivial. But as fate would have it, the very next day we thought we'd lost Dr. McKay and every one of us had to face the prospect of continuing on in the Pegasus Galaxy without him.

"It was definitely a wake-up call for me, I can tell you. I came to realise that as we've been moving from one crisis to the next, somewhere along the line we forgot to live our lives. So, when miraculous circumstances returned Rodney to us alive and whole—if somewhat younger than before," she added with a smile, "I decided it was time to stop simply surviving and to really start living again.

"We are all aware of how precarious life here can be. Each of us has lost friends and colleagues since we stepped through the stargate to Atlantis—but in living life to the fullest, we honour those who've fallen by making their sacrifice mean something, and we remind ourselves what it is we're here to fight for in the first place.

"So tonight we raise a glass to celebrate three years on the most incredible journey of our lives and to second chances—let's make the best of them."

As Elizabeth raised her glass and the rest of the crowd followed suit, Carson came up next to Rodney and handed him a half-full flute of champagne. "Under the circumstances, I'm willing to allow you one drink. But mind, I'll be keeping an eye on you," Carson mock-warned and raised his own glass.

Rodney nodded back at him, his cheeks aching from all the smiling, and he decided it wouldn't be such a bad thing to exercise those muscles more often.

One by one, the citizens of Atlantis filed past him, offering their congratulations along with handshakes or, in Ronon's case, a bone-crushing hug. By the end of it, Rodney was starting to wilt and was daydreaming about hand sanitizer and fluffy pillows. But seeing as the party was in his honour, he felt compelled to stay a while longer. Besides, he had a brilliant plan he needed to put into action.

He kept scanning the horde of revellers, keeping close tabs of where Sheppard was at all times. But even though they often made eye contact, Rodney was careful to be wherever John was not. It was proving to be an entertaining challenge to evade Sheppard when it was obvious the man was seeking him out, trying to pin him down. But it was all a part of his plan.

"Rodney? Rodney, did you hear what I was saying?" asked Teyla, who had somehow magically appeared before him.

"Hm? What?" he asked, distractedly, and popped a forgotten hors d'oeuvre into his mouth.

"I said, you'll be happy to know that young Pax has been taken in by an Athosian family. He now has a brother and two sisters, and he seems to be adjusting surprisingly well, all things considered."

"Pax?" asked Rodney, innocently.

Teyla gave him the squinty eye. "You do not fool me, Rodney. I know for a fact that you have been inquiring after the Pawnim boy just as often as he has been asking after you."

"Oh, him," Rodney replied, waving it off as if it were a trivial matter. Inside, he felt a swell of relief at the news, and if Teyla's smirk was any indication, she knew it, too. Suddenly feeling overly self-conscious, Rodney decided that now was as good a time as any to put phase two of his Sheppard Plan into gear. "Ah…if you'll excuse me, I uh…I've got this thing, and I should really be going," he said, cringing slightly at the pathetic excuse. Teyla just smiled at him indulgently and stepped aside so he could make his escape.

On his way out of the mess hall, Rodney did one last sweep of the crowd. Sheppard was on the opposite side of the room, also scanning the crowd, and like opposing magnetic forces, their gazes drew together until their eyes locked. Putting everything he had into that one look, Rodney backed out of the commissary. He had absolutely no doubt that John would read his understated body language and know he wanted him to follow him out.

* * *

Sheppard had been feeling off-balance for days—ever since Rodney woke up after cheating death…yet again. Things had been said in those waking moments. Awkward, embarrassing things. But then, Rodney had been groggy and half-stoned on painkillers, so it was entirely possible he was the only one who remembered _the incident_, as he was starting to think of it.

Refusing to have their friendship derailed by something as ridiculous as drug-induced taunting, John made a point of paying Rodney frequent visits while he was recuperating in the infirmary. And to his great relief, nothing was ever mentioned again about hand-holding or the feelings that went along with it. They'd fallen effortlessly into their usual banter, and he had to admit that he felt completely at ease in McKay's company.

That wasn't the problem.

The problem was that it now appeared that he only truly felt at ease when he was with Rodney. The rest of the time John felt oddly on edge. It was kind of like when he was six and his father had taken away his Bartholomew Bear because he was 'too old' for baby toys. For weeks afterwards he'd moped listlessly around the house, feeling lost and untethered. He didn't know what that said about his relationship with Rodney, but after the speech Elizabeth had just given, he wasn't about to call it into question. They were closer now than they'd ever been, and it had only taken a volcano, a Wraith, a Genii double agent and a poorly designed Asgard cloning device to get them here. Wherever here was.

And that was why Rodney's behaviour tonight had John puzzled. The man was actively avoiding him, purposely manoeuvring through the crowd of partygoers to be wherever John wasn't. And yet, even though Rodney was keeping his distance, there was something in his eyes whenever they looked at each other from across the room that told him this was all a game, and he was expected to play along.

John decided he could do that. And so he spent the whole evening chasing Rodney around the mess hall like some elaborate, snail-paced game of tag. Until Rodney slipped out of the commissary, signalling in his unsubtle way for him to follow—complete with head nod and eye-wink.

John suppressed a laugh and excused himself from Lorne's company. But after running the gauntlet through the mess hall and making his excuses to Elizabeth for heading out so early, Sheppard had lost Rodney's trail.

As he walked through the halls thinking he might have to resort to a Life Signs Detector again, John happened to look out a window and spotted movement on a balcony in the residential tower opposite. There was no mistaking Rodney—even from a distance, his quick, concise movements gave him away. And it looked like he was very busy over there. Thinking 'gotcha!', John half-jogged to the nearest transporter.

John arrived at the balcony to find it redecorated. Two lounge chairs from the closest common room had been set up facing a spectacular view of the city, which was sparkling like a diamond in the black velvet of the ocean. A low table separated the two chairs, and on it was a bottle of champagne—the one Miko had given to Rodney—and two glasses filled to the brim with the bubbly liquid.

Rodney was nestled comfortably in the crook of his chair's overstuffed arm, an unlit cigar trapped between his teeth as he grinned up at him.

"Okay, you got me—what the hell are you doing, McKay?" John asked, stuffing his hands deep into his pockets to cut some of the evening chill as he took up a casual pose against the nearest railing.

Rodney's eyes lit up, like he'd really been hoping John would ask that question. "Don't worry," he said smugly, "I don't plan on jumping."

"Never crossed my mind," John replied smoothly, even though it actually had crossed his mind, albeit very briefly. "So, what is it, then? You suddenly develop a taste for the great outdoors?"

Rodney snorted, nearly inhaling his cigar. He spat it out with a gagging cough and frowned at it in distaste. "Hardly," he answered, adding, "These things are disgusting! What could people possibly find attractive about sticking a smelly, carcinogenic weed into their mouths and lighting it on fire? As if there weren't enough things in this universe out to kill them, they feel it necessary to seek out a slow and horrible death coughing up blackened hunks of their own lungs."

John grimaced at that image and swore to himself he would destroy his secret stash of Cubans the minute he got back to his quarters. "You didn't answer my question, Rodney."

"Right!" Rodney perked up instantly, getting right back on track. "This," he proudly announced, indicating the balcony with a broad sweep of his hand, "is an invitation."

John looked around uncertainly at Rodney's hastily-assembled entry in 'Better Homes and Balconies'. "An invitation to what, exactly?" he asked, genuinely confused.

"Flamingos," Rodney blurted, hardly able to contain himself.

John raised an eyebrow, but before he could ask the obvious question, Rodney's index finger shot up in a 'hold that thought' kind of way.

"You've watched Elizabeth's copy of _Boston Legal_, right?" asked Rodney hopefully.

It was pretty much a given that everyone in Atlantis had watched the two seasons' worth of episodes their expedition leader had brought back from Earth, just like there wasn't a single soul, Ronon included, who hadn't at some point sat through _Fried Green Tomatoes_ and the entire _Nightmare on Elm Street_ series. Off-hours entertainment was a hot commodity on Atlantis, so Rodney had to know that John had seen the show. But rather than call him on it, John merely nodded, hoping to find out where all of this was going.

"Okay…so you know how Alan Shore and Denny Crane are friends? Best friends?" asked Rodney, starting to look a touch nervous.

John nodded again, warily this time, because he was starting to suspect where this might be headed. "With you so far," he answered.

"Well, I was thinking that maybe you and I could be flamingos like Denny and Alan," Rodney said in a blurred streak of words. "We could hang out here on the balcony after missions and whatnot and, and…talk…and such."

John eyed Rodney suspiciously, because, "Weren't Alan and Denny gay?"

Rodney's chest puffed out defensively. "No," he replied, but even his defensive posture couldn't disguise his uncertainty.

"But they slept together," Sheppard argued. "Regularly."

"Yes, yes," Rodney rapidly conceded. "But it was a comfort thing between friends. There was nothing sexual about it."

John raised an eyebrow in disbelief and wondered whether Rodney had been watching the same show. "Rodney…they were lovers."

Rodney's face darkened to a blotchy pink and he spluttered, "No they weren't. They just had a, a special friendship. It wasn't about sex!" Rodney half-shouted.

"Jeez, Rodney! Keep it down, would ya?" Sheppard glared and checked the adjoining corridor for possible eavesdroppers.

"Okay, look," Rodney started again, this time using his indoor voice. "I'm not explaining this well."

"I'm not gay, Rodney," John felt it necessary to point out.

"Of course you're not," Rodney hissed, "and neither am I. But…okay. John, you and I have been through a lot of…"

"Crap?" John suggested.

"Hmm…how eloquent. But yes—we've been through a lot of 'crap' together. And what I'm trying to say is that… Will you quit smirking already? This is hard enough to say as it is!"

"I wasn't smirking," John lied.

Rodney simply glared and moved on. "As I was saying; you and I already have a deep and…unusual friendship. By all rights the two of us shouldn't get along at all—but we do. Hell, even Ronon pointed out once that we act like an old married couple most of the time."

"And that's a good thing?" John asked in all innocence.

"Yes, it is," Rodney replied testily. "I know this may come as a surprise to you, but I've always been a bit of a loner. My longest relationship lasted all of six months, and it only lasted that long because she lived in a different province."

"So you want us to what? Get married or something?" asked John sarcastically.

Rodney's shoulders slumped in defeat. "Why am I even trying? Look—forget I ever mentioned it, alright? My mistake."

As Rodney bolted from his chair and made a bee-line for the door, John caught him by the arm, nearly wrenching it out of its socket. "Hold on, McKay."

"Ow! What's with the cave-man routine?" Rodney complained, rubbing at his shoulder. "Let go!"

"Not until you promise to stay put and listen to what I have to say," Sheppard said. Rodney looked at him worriedly, his blue eyes flickering off in various directions as if searching for a possible escape route. Finally Rodney nodded and John let go of his arm, trying not to roll his eyes when Rodney made a production of checking his arm for bruises.

John hadn't thought through what he was going to say. All he knew was that he couldn't let Rodney walk away angry at him—he couldn't stand the thought of having that kind of tension between them. So as he stood there watching McKay do his 'injured party' act, John called on the gods of improv to help him out.

"I never said no to the idea, Rodney," he said, and even as the words came out of his mouth and there was no taking them back, John knew he would stand by the impromptu decision.

"Seriously?" Rodney asked in disbelief once his brain had reconnected with his mouth.

"Well…I'm not saying I'll marry you, and I'm not having sex with you…but I'm willing to give the other stuff a go." Somewhere out there, John pictured his father crying out in his sleep, his worst nightmare come true. But it was worth it to see the blinding grin on Rodney's face.

"Flamingos?" asked Rodney.

"Yeah," John agreed with a grimace. "But can we please drop the term 'flamingos'? It kind of creeps me out."

"Deal!" Rodney beamed back at him and extended his hand to shake on it.

Figuring 'in for a penny', John grabbed Rodney by the shoulders and pulled him into a tight hug. Strangely enough, it didn't feel all that awkward…until Rodney's hands started rubbing broad circles against his back. Breaking away hastily, John suggested, "champagne?"

Rodney, who was blushing furiously, gratefully averted his eyes to the awaiting beverages. "After you, Denny," he said, ushering him into the nearest chair.

John sat and plucked up the closest glass. "Hold on—who said I was Denny Crane?"

"Please," Rodney snarked, taking a seat himself. "As if you could be Alan Shore!"

"I don't see why not," John retorted.

"For one thing, I'm younger than you are."

"Only physically. Chronologically, we're pretty much on par."

Rodney snorted. "For another thing, Alan is a verbose, liberal-minded, neurotic individual with a fear of clowns, and Denny is a gun-toting, flag-waving Captain Kirk."

John opened his mouth and then closed it again with a frown. "You've really put a lot of thought into this, haven't you?" he said at last with a whisper of a smile.

Rodney mirrored his expression and lifted his glass in a toast. "To us."

"I'll drink to that," John said and took a long swallow of the sweetly dry champagne. They sat companionably for a while, simply enjoying the view and the company. But then John felt Rodney's eyes on him and he turned his head to see a mischievous look on the scientist's face.

"So…sleepover tonight?" Rodney asked playfully.

"Rodney…" John growled back in warning, but it was just for show. He already knew there was nothing he wouldn't do for him. He just dreaded the day when Rodney figured that out for himself.

FINIS


End file.
